grass-stains and citrus

the orange is smooth and fits in my hand.  i sit on my heels, balancing on the narrow strip of concrete surrounding what used to be the garden.  it is currently a mound of grass clippings, ashes from the fireplace, and rotting oranges.  i have been pulling weeds for the past hour.  i don't know why.  i didn't have to.  i wanted to.  i finished my work and was sitting in the grass and started absentmindedly tugging up the lanky stems of crabgrass.  i had a pile before i even noticed.  it rained the other day and the ground is still soft.  now my hands are grubby and grass-stained.

the sun is warm on my back while a breeze plays with my already messy hair.  it's peaceful out here.  quiet.  i dig my thumb into the top of the orange, slicing through and ripping off a chunk of the peel.  juice drips over my fingers and it stings my skin.  it's as if my hands are working automatically.  thumb sneaks under the peel, grips it against the side of my index finger, pulls until it tears away from the rest of the rind.  all in one memorized motion.  the accompanying sound strikes my ears and it's all too familiar.  part rip, part hiss.  a sharp, fleshy sound.

soon the ground is littered with chunks of peel, their white insides bright in the sunlight.  more juice is finding its way out, so i lift the orange to my lips and suck the fresh sweetness off the top.  i think the sun would taste like citrus.  i break the fruit in half and tear off a segment with my teeth.  it's sweet.  not the sweetest, these oranges are better for juicing, but it's fresh.  i continue tearing and eating.  the liquid is finding its way across my knuckles, trekking to my wrists.  i finish the last segment and look down at my hands.  grass-stained palms, juice dripping from my fingertips.  i smile, gloating a little to myself.  i live here.