ON MY PLATE 04.28.2013

We ate orange wedges on your living room floor the day after your son was born. It was the only place you felt comfortable sitting, and you had been craving the juicy tartness throughout the last weeks of your pregnancy. Instead of flowers, I brought you 10 pounds of organic Valencias.

“Finally, the acid reflux is gone” you sighed, as you sucked the marrow from the rind.

Between the two of us, we ate five oranges, plucking wedge after wedge until the plate held nothing more than a layer of sticky juice.

You picked up the plate, eyed me apologetically, and licked it clean as I dug the orange pith from my fingernails. I grinned at your shy bravado and tried not to laugh as your baby slept in the nook of my folded legs. I laid my left hand on his day-old belly and felt his strong breath rise and fall beneath my palm.

As my heart swelled with love for this new tiny human, I wiped a tear from my cheek, and looked up to catch you doing the same.

“I...he’s just so....wow,” I stammered.

“I know. I grew him from scratch,” you beamed, as you dug more fruit from the bag and punctured the biggest one with your fingernails, prying away the flesh.