In This Dream

A Story by s.j

I was the perfect orange.

I had never known much about my brothers and sisters, or our neighbors, but I did know myself. And I was perfect.

I was the kind of orange that grew in the backyard of an antsy old woman whose peace lay in gardening. The combination of her very own need for serenity in a foreign world and natural green thumb are what inspired me to prosper.

At first, I was merely a bud for my buddies. There was a tickling freshness in my core created by my giggling peddles as they anticipated the seasonal bloom. It was something that would rumble in the echos of each thing I felt from then on, even after ripening. My evolving parts couldn’t keep me warm enough even though they were all huddled together so I decided to open up to the sun for I had seen what his hospitality could do for buds like me. With his help, I blossomed into something white and pure. However, flowering brought me a discomfort I could not adjust to; so delicately exposed and beautiful, I wanted the protection of a bundle once again.

I pushed myself on.

Before I could imagine my next self, I transformed into the fruitful delight I promised to be. My skin was so rawly calloused, but it did me well. It made me feel secure, allowing me when I stretched to feel everything intensely in my core: each juicy, ready-to-burst bulb of pulp was accounted for and the tough exterior I grew into fit me so smugly, I knew simply knew I was perfect! I couldn’t have been anything else!

The wind came by, singing her soothing song and inspiring my brothers and sisters and I to dance modestly. The sun, devoted to his cordiality, would call out my name in the morning to convince me to continue to live until tomorrow so he would have reason to return from once he set out on his daily trek.

I lied to the sun. I would respond to his calls, say he was the sole purpose of my existence when really it was my lady who made me love to live.

Everyday, she came out and greeted me. Then, I would watch her as she went to my brothers and sisters and our neighbors. She provided drinks and tended to all of us with a languid narrative that I know was meant for us and no one else. All I wanted was to do well by her so I made sure to be as much as I could be, but with the grand gesture of vibrancy and ripeness. I made sure to be perfect for her.

And I succeeded: She thought me perfect.

I know because the last thing I remember learning was the feel of her firm grasp. Her warm skin caressing mine, only I felt every glowing bit seeping into my core as she picked me.

It was a radiating affirmation that I was the first, and therefore the last, pick of the season. So perfect, I was all she needed.