Under The Oranges

Juan sat religiously under the orange tree every afternoon. His iron bench burned in blistering summer and frosty winters. As he stooped over his walking stick, he watched. He watched the gypsy girls thieving those oranges. He watched the youths race past on motorbikes at deathly speeds. He babbled to the other pensioners who sometimes joined him. When alone, he grieved for his late wife. The wife who cleaned their step with orange-scented bleach, the lady who made tarta de naranja, the woman who used to pluck these oranges in rural Seville. Soon he would over-ripen like these oranges above him. He was already well past his prime. He'd tumble and decay into a sweet memory... a melody of yesterday.