Citrus Tear Drop

Her eyes were watering.

It wasn't the citrus that had sprayed her face when she was cutting it open - it was the smell as it flooded her nose. Her grandmother smelled of oranges. As young as she was, she always knew her grandmother because of the aroma of fresh citrus. She may not have been able to picture her grandmother when she was younger, more alive and vibrant, but her first memory of her was that smell.

It had been so long since she had gone. She had always assumed pictures would help her remember. But whenever she looked at them, they felt hollow. Memories didn't come back to her. They didn't swell up inside of her. She felt guilty. She felt broken and empty without her.

The funeral was hard for her. She didn't want to believe it and she didn't want to accept it. But the planting of the tree helped. Her grandmother was from Florida and had grown up on an orange grove. It seemed fitting that at the time of her passing she wanted an orange tree planted above her but it never made much sense to her - why plant a tree over her grandmother.

Now it made sense.

When the days were hard, she'd walk there, amongst the other tombstones until she reached the large tree, baring enough fruit to feed a small community. She'd inhale, deep into her lungs and the memories would rush back. She could remember her smile vividly - the softness of her hands.

And on those days that were harder than the rest, she'd bring a knife with her and pluck one of the fruits off the tree and carefully, with all the love in the world, she would cut it open and let the juice soak into her skin. The citrus felt cool between her fingers. It felt inviting.

It felt like she was holding her grandmother's hand.