Special Edition III: The Sweetest Orange
A poem of celebration and thoughts on loss.
Dear Readers:
At the beginning of June, my dad unexpectedly passed away. He was almost 70, so he wasn’t too young, but it was far too early. It has been a rough adjustment, a precious gathering of memories, and an enlightening look at how a million personal decisions form the theme of a life.
I mourn his loving influence, unfailing generosity, and zest for experience and adventure. He was a hard-worker, an entrepreneur, a dreamer–and could also admit (eventually) when he was wrong. He was constantly looking out for the little guys and trying to make the world a bit more fair and just. And, as I’ve been telling stories about him to friends and people who never knew him (stories that are normal to me), I've realized he was quite the character!
He was also one of my biggest fans.
I share this poem as a tribute to my relationship with my dad and as an invitation for you to reflect on those persons–living or dead–who have left their unique fingerprints and influence on you and your life.
(I did publish a version of this poem when I was in college in my university’s literary journal and gave him a copy for Christmas that year.)
Next newsletter, I’m planning to be back to our regularly scheduled program. I appreciate your patience and understanding.
Best wishes for the summer months ahead,
Kate
I sit on the kitchen stool
and watch Dad choose an orange
from the 20 pound box.
He gently squeezes each fruit,
finds one that suits him,
and sits down next to me.
We talk about business ideas.
He gently bites the peel,
just enough to break the skin.
With his large fingers,
he digs under
and around and around and around,
piling sweet peels on the counter
until he holds a bare orange in his hands.
We talk about my date last night.
Finding the center,
he pushes both thumbs in,
breaking the whole globe in two.
He pulls the sections apart,
citrus smell bursting,
orange slices rocking on the counter.
We talk about our dreams.
He offers me a piece of his orange.
It is always the same,
slice after slice after slice.
One for me
and one for him–
until we are done.
And he patiently peels another.
Visit katewebbwrites.com for more information and free resources. Thank you for your readership!