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Winter Oranges

The first year, bookended by orange blossoms. Everything is in bloom when we get home from the hospital. We stand in front of the lavender bush, an introduction to the sun as it passes through the orange tree leaves, white petals at our bare feet. Too hot, skin to skin, sweat slick. Bandages and medicine. Somewhere between the trauma and calm, time slips, then the orange tree fruits. It is winter. The rats eat the peel, and the gnawed, bare fruit falls to the ground. New buds grow. Then everything is in bloom again, the garden awash with petals and dying bees. The scent permeates the house, we breathe great lungfuls of relief, grief, love. The first year passes.