There was once an orange that appeared on a child’s windowsill. Unexpected and foreign, they could smell the reek of it in their room. Their mother — and her mother, and her mother — claimed an allergy to oranges and all its cousins. They had never seen one in the flesh before then, and that day, they saw the way sunlight filled the pores of its sickly skin and felt their own arm prickle in shivers.
The child had immediately thrown the orange out for fear of a reaction and a sudden rising shame that their mother would find it in their room. But the next day, like magic, it reappeared. And the day after that, and the day after that. It continued to haunt them for weeks, and no matter how far they threw it away — the garbage outside, the neighbor’s trash, and once, out of the window from frustration — it returned, at the exact same sunspot of the sill.
Its scent continued to diffuse through the room in those weeks, finding a home on their clothes, their bed, their skin. It was a dance, almost, of citrus notes that demanded attention and a stubborn abhorrence that challenged it. But as the child danced along, the orange began to feel natural, its presence, its being. The way it filled their space and the way it stung their eyes if they got too close became a new comfort. They moved as one, in these moments, in a back and forth of secrets they hid from family.
They found themself whispering stories to it once the sun would set. They’d sit next to it, knees up to their chest, moonlight streaming in and blanketing them in a silent intimacy. They told it things they had never, and would never — thought they’d never — tell anyone. And the orange stayed quiet throughout, assuring them with the same fragrance they once hated. Bright clementine perfume, melodic, like a relieving sigh in the quiet of the night. They found it beautiful, then.
One night, doors locked, lights off, the child peeled its skin, felt its surprising smooth exterior and textured pilling whites. They grazed the thin film that protected its pulp, and finally — after months of trepidation — bit in. And the juices that burst into their mouth surprised the child so much they had to take a step back. Their eyes shut tightly from its acidity, seeing the same stars from the sky in their own room. It was dizzying, but became a new addiction. Again and again, they pulled apart its carpels and tasted it. They were gentle, nervous, exhilarated.
They repeated the same ritual every night. Despite consuming its fruit, they’d leave the skin on the same spot, and as the sun rose, it rebirthed itself and tasted sweeter every time. It began to leave a stain on the child’s skin, and an eternal smell on their fingers. At a certain point, they couldn’t hide it. They would attempt to obscure it, with pockets, gloves, soap, but it made its mark and they were an extension of its existence. Merged together, tucked away in the corner of the child’s room, they created their own space.
Their skin’s pores opened, suddenly textured, warm in color. They glowed in the sun, soaking in the light, energy bright. The child smiled so wide, it blended into their skin. They sang, music flowing out in loud symphonies that had to be listened to. Arms wrapped around themselves, they hummed music unknown, self-soothing, self-loving, cocooned in their own assurance. They stayed awake all night, serenading the moon until the sun rose, and they became whole.
Pass the MiC Content Producer So Jung “SJ” Shin can be reached at sojungsh@umich.edu.