I just had the loveliest, juiciest, sweetest, tastiest orange. Oooh, it was good. Sweet, but tangy. It made my mouth water. And now my hands smell like orange. Really good fruit makes me feel happy to be alive.
It reminds me of a pear I had years ago. I was 15 years old, sitting on the step outside the cafeteria at Silverado High School in Las Vegas. The sun was shining, it was about 10:45 a.m. I think, because the light from the sun was still morning light, fresh and crisp, not the glaring light of desert noontime. This pear. I bit into it, and the juice would have run down my chin, except I tipped my head. It was sweet and delicious… not at all grainy the way pears sometimes can be. It wasn’t squishy either, though. It was perfect. I’ve never had a better pear, in any of the 14 years since then. I wonder though, now that I’m older, whether the memory is a true memory. I wonder if I have had better pears, but because this pear is in my mind, shrined in a holy light as the “best pear I’ve ever had”, if no other pear will ever be able to compare. Because here’s the thing. This pear, the best pear I’ve ever had, it’s not a real pear anymore. It’s a memory (ceci n’est pas une pear). It’s hard for real things to compare with memories.
In any case, my orange today was brilliant. A succulent masterpiece of creation… and I feel privileged to have had the experience of eating it.