Slicing into an orange, the juice misting
the hairs on my arm, twinkling under
the kitchen light, lighting my senses;
I remember watching my mother
a Zen-like procedure, ripe with anticipation,
with desire, drift like a moist halo
around my head.
In slow motion, my thoughts linger over the image; her hands, the glint on the silver knife, the woodgrain on the handle, the perfect orb bursting with liquid gold, the pungent smell, teasing and tickling my nose.
I am eight again.
“Are you even listening? Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yes” I say, “I’m sorry bud.”
I look into the eyes of my son, who is eight.