Orange, a meditation

If I were to leave the fruit's name out, what would you make of this piece? How would the meaning change?

The orange demands your full attention. She requires two hands, leaving your complete attention enveloped in her.

She, she feels like a she.

My nails puncture her orange coat. Skin thicker than mine. Why does it grow with such protection? What evils does it repel? Was I ever supposed to be digging into her fruit?

Starting from the center, going for the heart, a spritz of citrus explodes from her outer layer, almost like a gas being sprayed on the enemy. I think of war, picturing the drawbridge falling unwillingly as cannons fire. Soldiers clad in silver mesh run rampant back and forth, sinking their weapons wherever they fit.

Piece by piece, she comes undone. Her insides are revealed, exposed to air for the first time. Liquid falls down my fingers as loose beads burst. It is impossible to stop midway, so I must continue until the fruit lies bare. It always becomes a game—can I take the skin off in one go?

Some pieces are large, others small. Her skin lies in a pile nearby—an abstract piece of art. I wonder how many different ways people have peeled an orange. What are the chances someone has created as many pieces as I have, all consisting of the exact size of my rinds? I am the only person. Probably.

White threads hang loose as I peel the orange apart, aiming to remove as many threads as possible. Healthy, but not tasty. It feels like I’m eating hair.

I eat each piece and feel an instant sense of joy. As the pearls burst with each bite, I think of how a tree grew this just for me. Months and months of work just for me to scarf it down.

The least I could do is be here with my orange and enjoy it fully.