My Father Peels an Orange August 16, 2024 – Posted in: Books, Edwin Fontanez, News, One Last Song

I am six years old. The early brightness of the rising sun makes me squint. In my hands I hold the bright colored fruit my mother handed me for breakfast. As I admire its porous roundness, its citrusy sweet aroma penetrates my nostrils. I’m sitting alone on the stoop where Papa finds me before going to work to dig out sand to sell.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting by my side. And I showed him the orange.

“Mamita gave it to me,” I explain.

Taking it from my hand, he offers, “Let me peel it for you.”

He then takes a small knife out of his pocket. Rotating the fruit with his hand, with impressive skill he begins to remove the skin of the orange, producing a thin band. Fascinated, I watch the orange ribbon slowly gather in graceful concentric circles on the floor. When I finally press the sweet orange against my lips, I don’t mind the fine trickle of juice dripping through my fingers. I still sense the wave of love I felt for him. Revisiting this moment in my mind, I gaze at it like an old snapshot. A singular moment with him that encapsulated the budding, unbreakable bond between a father and son that was beginning to form. The memory of the fruit’s sweetness cannot compare to my pleasure on that quiet morning, watching my father create a graceful, unbroken, golden ribbon gathering at our feet. And suddenly, much like a new gust of wind, his long-gone voice, and presence begin to circle around me.