the blood orange parcel
Tatia rolled the blood orange in her palm. Its soft, textured rind felt cool against her skin. Large puffs of clouds rolled lazily by the far wall of windows, taunting her. Mother nature was thriving while the human race hibernated. She threw a quick nod to a neighboring desk plant. “You win, I guess.”
She lifted the small piece of fruit to her nostrils, deeply inhaling its scent. Memory pulled her back to an earlier Christmas of ‘84 and the deep avocado-pit-sized knot in her throat having unwrapped yet another piece of fruit from her parents. “Thank you, Bubi.” At first, their floundering bank account and inventive holiday gifts hadn’t bothered her. It wouldn’t be until a few years later, pushed into puberty, that the other children would let her know how embarrassing of a lifestyle it really was.
A wave of the long-stored shame flushed through her. She placed the orange onto her desk as her eyes scanned the empty office. Just weeks ago it had been bustling with some of the most brilliant minds of the bay area. They always did say it was lonely at the top, but damn.
Tatia wondered what her parents would be doing were they still here. Would she be with them? Likely, no. It often takes trauma to shake the rigidity of our stubborn past. And even now there lingered a few unhealed wounds from their nontraditional parenting approach. What pride she had felt when she had told them that she had secured a place at this prestigious tech powerhouse. How she had almost dug into them with a slight air of “I did what you couldn’t.” The regret choked her now.
Why did it take so long to shake the blindness of adolescence and see the callousness of our misunderstandings?
She scanned the untouched office once more. Although she felt fortunate to have dodged the furlough, she hadn’t anticipated the magnitude of this loneliness.
Turning to her side, her eyes fell onto a fragment of unread newspaper; more uncertainty, more bad news. As if pawing through delicate pages of an old scrapbook, she carefully lifted one page of the paper, laying it open before her. Gently lifting her fragile orange, she placed it carefully into the center and began wrapping the small piece of fruit. Doctored by a few pieces of scotch tape, Tatia placed her newly wrapped bundle before her. A wave of intimate warmth ran through her.
As she leaned into the small parcel, the glow of the familiarity shot sparks of humility down her spine. And to the deafening, still silence she whispered her apology, “Thank you, Bubi.”
-b
April 20, 2020