I have been thinking about an orange all day. I ate it two years ago in February at a rest stop off of Interstate 5. Don’t ask me which rest stop; which stretch of highway. I couldn’t tell you anything more than it was before Ojai, Ca and far enough away from Martinez, Ca, that I was hungry, that as much as I wanted to be at my destination, I had to pull over. I sat on the hood of my car, and fished out the lunch my mother had packed for me in a small brown paper bag: a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and an orange with its peel sliced in quarters, the cuts not deep enough to disrupt the fruit. She had “started” it for me. I had forgotten how I could never figure out how to peel an orange when I was a child, and so to alleviate my frustration and cut down on the mess I inevitably made, her solution was to draw a knife down its sides, sectioning its skin and then handing it to me so I could finish the job. I don’t know how long I sat staring at the orange and crying. Time stopped.