Every evening this week after the child has gone to bed and the floor has been cleared of his strewn toys and scattered cracker crumbs, I retrieve from the kitchen one of my grandfather’s home grown oranges.
It’s impossible to peel, so I cut it into quarters before wrapping it in a paper towel and carrying it to the recliner in the living room.
The fruit is so bright, chilled and glistening with juice. I take into myself all that it has to offer – the sweetness of months of sunshine, the tartness of that first frost, the nutrients from soil and fertilizer and photosynthesis.
I leave each rind spent, limp and somewhat dulled but seemingly satisfied in serving its purpose, in having grown within itself something simple and beautiful and nourishing.
It’s January, I’m epically pregnant and it’s too cold to go do anything so yeah, I’ve resorted to still life fruit portraits. It’s either that or a close up of my new stretch marks. I’m sure you’ve got better stuff to show off, so link up with #iPPP today!
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