Orange Blossoms

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I find myself staring down a parking lot filled to the brim with the newest models that Hyundai could offer. God, there must’ve been hundreds, sitting right there, all neat in perfect rows. They were lined up in various shades of silver, black and occasionally red, each of them cleaned from the dust and raindrops and seagull shit.

They were always clean, the cars inside car dealerships. They looked clean, smelled new, and shined in the sunlight. That’s because cars always had to be clean and shiny for them to sell, just as salesmen always had to be confident, expressive, and outrageously joyful in order to sell them. Otherwise, the customer would see right through their thinly veiled joyful illusion that new cars are a worthy investment and recognize that underneath the bright and happy lipstick smile were lies spit out through fake teeth. And if they realized all of that, then how would the cars ever sell off the shelves?

Except, these weren’t shelves—it was a vast expanse of a muted grey parking lot, and that was the problem, because I hate the dealership, I hate fake joy and most of all I hate this damned parking lot and all of its awful new metal garbage.

Its been a while.

20 years ago. It was April, and it was right up in the crook of central Florida, just south of Tampa. Spread out in front of me were hundreds of squat blossoming trees—an orange grove. The oval leaves shined in the sun, illuminating the thin veins running across their surface. In the thousands they covered the branches like feathers on the red-bellied woodpecker that sat amongst them, scattering the shadows on the grassy dirt ground. Tucked sweetly in their midst were little clusters of flowers, with thin and delicate petals that stretched out from their bright yellow centers, and just beyond them hung the ripened oranges themselves.

I gasped at the sight of it all, my scrawny 10-year-old form barely able to hold in the excitement of it. To my right, I heard a burst of glee as my little brother ran out into the grove, and I ran after him, tripping over grass and various branches, looking for the best oranges to pick.

“Hold—hold on now!” My Aunt shouted from behind us, racing after us in rolled-up jeans and a t-shirt. She was laughing along with us.

“Alright you two, calm down now” My aunt called, finally having caught up to us. She gave us a big hug. “Let’s go pick some oranges, shall we?”

It was my Aunt’s grove, and she owned an acre or two filled with just orange trees, and every fourth week of April we would come and visit to pluck some of the best fruits and take them home up north.

I loved to climb those trees, along the branches just thick enough for my hands to wrap comfortably around, and to hide up amongst the foliage. Of course, a quarter of those times ended with me hightailing it back to my Aunt because of a bee that buzzed by my ear, but it was worth it, wasn’t it? To sit in the quiet, listening to just the birds and the sway of the trees. I loved to pretend that I was out in the woods and that the orange tree was the glamorous treehouse I built and lived in.

My brother wasn’t all for climbing up trees, however. He’d much rather sit underneath them with his legs crossed and a couple of oranges in his lap, usually accompanied by a book. He’d preferred the dazzling world of storytelling rather than orange tree forts—not that it was a bad alternative.

That was 20 years ago.

15 years ago. I was back at the orange grove, now in my teens. I didn’t run or laugh with glee like I used to. In fact, I thought it was hot, certainly too hot to run around. I didn’t mind the grove, though. I never minded the grove.

I found a taste for photography at 15 years old. The way the light hit things when they sat so close to the lens allowed you to see each little detail and imperfection in each little thing. Every minor item I photographed felt big in the confines of a camera, whether it was a blossom or an ant in the grass. And when you looked at the photo for long enough, it suddenly felt as though you could sit amongst the microcosmic world and forget how oranges fit inside the palm of your hand and how the world was too big to hold.

15 was the last time I had visited the orange grove. I still remember my aunt’s face on that trip. She didn’t run that day, either. In fact, she was quite pale, with dark circles under her eyes. When she looked at the pictures I took, they were handed back to me with a bit of cold sweat on the back.

The trip had ended with a hospital visit and a heart attack. And while we took home oranges, my aunt took home medical bills. Eventually, my aunt had to sell her property.

And that’s how what was left of my aunt’s grove suddenly crumbled into a jumble of childhood memories, glossy photographs, and a plot of land for sale.

It’s been a while, and everything was different now.

On land which was once covered with grass and dirt was now paved with grey cement, with neat little parking lines painted where trees once stood. There was nothing to climb on, and no shade to sit under.

I wasn’t sure what I expected, really.

“Would you like some help?” A voice called. I turned to see a saleswoman in her 50’s jogging over to me, crimped curls bouncing with each step.

“Were you looking at this model?” The woman asked with a smile, gesturing to the car in front of me.

“No—no. I wasn’t looking at any model”. I began to back up to leave. “I apologize for the confusion”.

“Would you like to look at a model? We have some you could test drive if you like. This here is a sports model, so it has a leather interior with orange stitching—” She opened the door for me to step inside. “Would you like to look inside?”

I paused for a moment. “…I’m alright ma’am, sorry for disturbing you. Have a wonderful day”.

And then I left the parking lot.

I’m not sure why I went in the first place, really. I hoped for a long time that the buyer of the property simply maintained the orange grove and made a business of selling the oranges. Realistically I knew that it wasn’t likely, and now it was proven. The home away from home that I’ve always loved disappeared a long time ago and the closest semblance to what was left of it in the parking lot was the orange stitching in that sports car.

But it was gone, and so that was the last time I visited what was left of the orange grove.