Morning reflection

My daughter was sick a couple of days ago. She had a twenty-four hour bug and recovered very quickly although I can see it in her eyes and appetite. She is off to school now and I miss her.

We live a block from her school and when she leaves in the morning we wave back and forth until she is out of sight. I wonder when that will change. I will be at a soccer game, a grocery store or shopping and hear someone say, "It all changes at fourteen." I hope not.

In my job I see families and over time I watch them. It is not in any voyeuristic way but just that I notice. I've been on my route for twenty-five years and I see the arc of their lives. Children that I once bought Kool-Aid from for a dime now have children of their own and I buy their Kool-Aid.

It's amazing how much I know about people by what they order and the little snippets of information that I gather from thirty second conversations. I am blessed with an odd memory that can pull together this information into a form of understanding.

I think about the woman on my route who gets only one package a year, a box of oranges and grapefruit from her sister in Florida. I have talked to her every time I've delivered them and each year I have gathered a little more.  My memory shifts back to last Christmas and her last box of oranges.

The sisters haven't talked in years and this is their only communication. It has become a tradition and is expected.  I get into my little truck and do a quick sort and there is the box of fruit. Its aroma filled the truck and all day long I am kept aware of it's promised sweetness.

I don't get to that part of town until at least well after dark and I carry it to the house. The package is heavy so I carry it into the house and she seems happy to receive it. She opens it and offers me an orange, as she always does. I take it with genuine appreciation. I ask her how she is doing, how the family is doing and her sister. Her sister isn't well and she is conflicted. I am a stranger so she tells me a little more than she would tell someone else.  As she tells me I am unconsciously rubbing the orange in my hands. I tell her that time has passed, that perhaps it is time to visit her sister. She says never, but pauses just enough to know she will think about it. I hope she does.

After I leave I can smell the orange on my hands and I reflect on my own relationships and I vow to call someone I love and tell them so.

On my last coffee break I peel the orange and slowly take it in.