The pink cherry blossoms are blooming again. I grip my little sister’s hand as bustles of people, bargaining mothers and smiling grandfathers, push their way around us, as if forming a freshwater stream around two rolling pebbles. With a gentle tug, my sister eagerly points to a stand in the corner that reads FRESH CHERRIES & PEACHES. We stand in front of mountains of shiny, plump, crimson cherries and fuzzy, soft, pink yellow peaches. The scent of sweet and sticky nectar engulfs my senses as my heart beats faster and my head feels lighter. The man’s eyes glisten with generosity as he nods and holds out a round cherry and thick slice of peach to us. My little sister reaches for the cherry. I don’t want to seem rude, so I shove the sticky peach into my mouth. I chew, a honey-like sweetness and certain satisfaction, specifically peaches have, tingling my tongue. In a big gulp, I swallow the remains of peach mush but its fragrance stubbornly clings to the walls of my mouth. I see my sister, eyes crinkling into crescents as she smiles widely, savoring the last bits. There are red stains everywhere. Mom is going to nag at us. I absentmindedly swallow, trying to wash my mouth of the lingering, almost sickeningly sweet, bitter aftertaste that overripe peaches have, but it’s no use. I once told you peaches were my favorite. I wonder if you remember that. 

 

Afternoon sunlight sneaks through the windows, dancing around the living room to the beat of the swaying green leaves outside. The house is very quiet, excluding the scraping of my nails sliding along the ipad screen and clinking of a fork. I lounge lazily on the couch. My right hand scrolls, and my left hand stabs around the bowl. Finally, I capture a light green grape, savoring victory which tastes mellow and of watermelon juice. Following this, I pierce a crisp cube of watermelon, which is a calm red orange. As my teeth embrace, my tongue welcomes the familiar burst of flavors that make me reminisce about elementary school summer breaks. Watermelon has a peculiar scent that floats in the air, just like the earthy air after rainfall, so I could always tell that dad was slicing up a new watermelon. Now, the watermelon is precut and covered with plastic wrap. But the excitement is all the same. As if it’s a ritual to celebrate the end of the school year, each bite of fruit erases the math equations that I had painfully mulled over all year and adds a little more white space in my brain. The white space expands over everything, including my memories of you. I think about you less and less. 

 

The air is quite chilly and the wind unforgivingly harsh, despite the southern California sunshine. Dad and I sit on the hotel terrace, admiring the cityscape and apricot sunset. The sun, a flaming cranberry, sinks, painting the sky beneath it vividly. My fingers are stiff from the cold, and I want to escape to the warm hotel room. Suddenly, a wave of tangy, spiky, scent invades my nose: Dad is expertly peeling an orange. I can see the juice particles exploding in the air while white stringy peel breaks from orange flesh. He separates a slice and holds it out to me looking, nodding, “it’s good for you.” He knows I don’t like oranges, or citrus at all. I say it every time he buys cardboard boxes full and says it’s his favorite. Reluctantly, I take it in my fingers and carefully place the entire piece in my mouth. It’s surprisingly sweet. So sweet, I feel my nose on fire and eyes liquifying. Is this why dad likes them? Is this why you liked them? Where’s the aftertaste? I keep waiting. Waiting for the tart flavor to shock me, make my entire face crinkle in disgust, prove that I was right. It never hits me. Only a slight refreshing taste remains, until it fades into nothing. You were right. But you are merely the past. 

 

For every spring, summer, and the ones after that, we are strangers crawling away from each other.

 

Yet my craving for sweet oranges is insatiable every winter.

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