Saturday, February 4, 2012

Orange Tree

More writings for my Persuasive Writing class. It's so much fun!

Sun shoots through my window and shatters against my eyes—green, with orange circles—and the inside of my eyelids is an orange tree. I think of the orange tree that was the only fence between us and Maria Teresa, the only fence between our driveway and hers. It was the only fence between me and that old lady who grabbed my shoulders once and shook me and yelled Spanish at my ears. But sometimes—when the blossoms smelled so strong I could feel the smooth rind of an orange in my hand and taste the bitterness of opening it with my teeth and the sweetness of juice dribbling down my throat—I’d step off our driveway and into her grass. The tree is gone now and so is she. She died—she was dead on her tiled kitchen floor for two days before someone found her—and Greeks moved in with screaming kids and funny names. They cut it down. They cut down that old orange tree, but I can still see it when the sun shines green and orange on my eyes.