There’s a bowl of oranges on the counter that came from my grandfather’s wife

I don’t know what to call her now that he’s gone.

Every year, for the holidays, he used to send us fruit
bright citrus from sunny Florida to our gray lives in New Hampshire
an almost teasing gift for his daughter,
dangling the reminder of the warm weather from her childhood in front of her face

we used to eat them sparingly,
savoring the sunlight in each bite,
trying to stretch out the delivery as long as possible,
but they were always gone by the New Year.

This year, the oranges sit in their bowl, untouched
the dreary New England weather more to our tastes,
the bright citrus flavor too tangy,
too sharp and painful,
and the delivery doesn’t feel like teasing anymore.

It feels like my grandfather’s wife trying desperately to fill a gap,
a plea for attention and praise,
from a woman that makes my mother yell and cry in equal measure,
defeating the purpose of the oranges altogether

instead of nostalgia and warm, happy memories
these oranges are full of deception,
a shadow of the gesture they once were,
they serve as a bitter and needed reminder of what we’ve lost

these oranges will rot.