Where did this airport orange come from? With its latex skin and oversized core? Does the man who sold it, with the gap toothed grin, know which truck it arrived on and when? What chemicals were pumped so that it would appear so luscious at 6 o’clock in the morning–when the endless stream of travelers are chomping at the bit for their daily injection of caffeine and decide that they should have something “healthy”to go along with their coffee need?
What hands touched this bumpy surface before my fingernails dug in? And what do they do with all of the oranges that go unwanted? Like those superbowl logo clothes–stitched with the names of the teams that lost and stretched across the backs of poor kids in Africa–all in the name of excess?
How many miles did that fruit fly
To find its way into my belly? A belly that now sits on a plane. Burning fuel. I have a suspicious feeling that oranges don’t grow well in Minnesota this time of year.
My orange has a story.
And so does yours.