21 February 2005

Last night was the pre-birthday of a dear friend of mine who it seems I both barely know and understand better than most of the people in my life. For some people, directness is to be avoided at all costs, for others, it’s simply the only way to be. She’s most definitely the latter.

I’m always bad at getting presents for people, and more often than not, what they end up with will be the first thing that clicks in my head five minutes before I see them, or in this case 30 minutes after I’d already been at the bar. I went to get more money, because that is what I always do, and I passed a bin of oranges at the deli. I picked up one, then thinking of the poem that at that second perfectly captured she and her girlfriend, I picked up a second. I paid for both, a dollar, and gave them to her.

I can’t think of two more deserving people, and can’t help but wish more people had stories like theirs, or like the one below.

Oranges
GARY SOTO

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porchlight burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drug store. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers
And asked what she wanted-
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past.
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

2 Comments:

Blogger Kath said...

well well done, gyves.

4:13 PM  
Blogger JCN said...

That, my friend, did a hell of a lot more for my conception of the color orange than a certain $21 million installation. Wankery, that. Poetry, this.

6:22 PM  

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