The Old Lady in the Orange Grove

     There was an old woman who lived in an orange grove. She grew oranges so bright and so fragrant, it appeared like a painting in the clouds. A picture of life and it's simple pleasures. Often, I would drive by her wonderland and see her walking amongst the trees-bucket in hand-waiting to pick the first one that caught her eye. She was no amateur, she had been plucking oranges from trees long before I was anyone's conscious thought. She had a way of reaching, ever so gracefully, up into the abyss of the branches, looping her fingers around the floating orb, and with a press between forefinger and thumb; coaxing it into her pail.

     On any given summer day, I could jet by and see the many people she would let come and mingle with her amidst the trees, talking and laughing; and of course picking baskets of oranges. She never charged a dime for her oranges or her time, though I often thought people would have gladly paid a generous amount of money for a small taste of either. She loved them all-stranger or neighbor, but she especially loved the children. She struck me as the mother type, though I never saw her with anyone except her friendly great dane "Frank". She named him Frank after her late husband. The poor dehydrated thing showed up on her back door steps the day after she buried the only man she ever loved and they shared the same pale blue eyes. It was a sign. She was a big believer in those sorts of things.

     She had a way with the children that was neither geriatric nor motherly. It was a kindred bond she shared with them, as if they were equal partners, only decades apart. It was sometimes hard to distinguish their laughter- hers so effervescent-blending right in. Spanning the time between them.

     She never needed anyone's company in order to have a good time. I passed by one drizzly afternoon, only to catch her in the lowest part of the grove, leaping over the tiny puddles of water that always seemed to gather there after a bit of rain. There she was, her coveralls soaked and her hair  matted against her face; which despite the rain was completely aglow. Frank ran beside her, as he always had and she hoped he always would.

     Those summer days seem so far away now. I wish I had known her name. I always felt I knew the things that really mattered, but it still gnawes away at my heart that I never learned her name. She's been gone some time now. The grove- overgrown and in need of pruning- sits alone; beckoning anyone to frolic about in its perfectly straight rows. How I would love to be the one to give in to its desire. But alas, the gate is shut on the property and in a way to that section of my heart.