Orange Pulp

I was born, grew up, went to school, married, travelled, got a job, grew old, retired, bought an orange, and sat down under a shady tree tree, peeled the orange, and then paused, to look carefully at the orange from all sides, considering its elements, geometry, structure, function, surfaces, textures, first alone, then in contact with my skin. Soft pulp sliding across my finger.

At this moment I remembered the time as a young child when, fishing, I caught small fish and ran, crying, back to the cottage, while the fish, hook in cheek, flipped and flopped on the dock. Its unending, absolute, futile efforts frightened me. It was sunny, the lake was black, the grass was green.

I peel the thin white layer of pulp off the orange and eat just that. My wife watches with contempt; she’s uncomfortable out of the house: ants crawl up her varicose skin. I split the orange in two and offer her half. She uses a hand to wipe white hair from her forehead. She declines.

I will eat the orange, go home, tire, age, slow, celebrate the birth of a grandchild, move with my wife to an apartment, seniors residence, nursing home, die, be buried, mourned, remembered, forgotten, decompose, and finally, loose the fossilized shadow of my existence as the sun expands some 500 million years from now, engulfing the earth in less time than it takes for an old man to eat an orange.

That's The End