Oranges

The taste of citrus under the old oak.

I remember the afternoon
though not the year.
You were laughing at something,
and there was an orange between us,
half-peeled,
the sunlight finding its way
through the leaves.

Your old jacket was the color
of leaves in late October
and you'd wear it on our walks,
while you peeled an orange
as if there were a proper way
to do it

In the winter, we'd break chocolate oranges
against the kitchen counter,
scaring the cats,
and you'd mention how well they went
with your lip balm.

Sometimes I think of you at seventeen,
an orange peel tucked between your teeth,
smiling at me
as though the world
had never been anything but kind.

When you got sick,
so much had lost its taste
the little halos held their place,
sharp and sweet
as they always had been

Last night,
you kissed me before turning out the lights.
And for a moment
I was beneath that old oak again,
and we were young
and there was nothing
we needed to remember.