The old man totters out with a stick in a box, an orange tree.
It’s been two weeks since the surgery.
His much brisker wife helps him in the car, setting the plant
beside him. She puts two more plants in the back of their
Cadillac, then goes back inside to pay. As he waits,
sun streams in, heating the leather seats and illuminating
mountains of immaculate oranges, bright pyramids,
of yellow binned-bounty. Never mind the bored
girls inside, the small jars of sharks floating in blue liquid,
eyes not quite focused on the saltwater baskets, sea
shell wind chimes, and coconut bear claws. Never
mind the postcards of plush pigs on the beach,
crocodile paws strung on key chains, the sandals
and popguns and photo frames. He watches
a tentative family step out of their van, their
little boy spying the free sign on the table,
the plastic tongs and tubs filled with navel wedges —
as he watches the boy hesitating, unsure,
his eyes fill up with tears as he holds his tree
and lifts his hand up in a marked gesture: eat, eat.
