The Sentimental Orange

Marta stood in the sunlit orchard, her hands caressing the spotted leaves of orange trees. Each plant was abundant with glowing fruit, its citrus scent mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil. She had come out here for the harvest, but the task was far more significant than merely collecting fruit. It was a way to re-meet her childhood when her grandparent's orchard was the only world she knew. 

  She paused as she reached for an orange, running her fingers gently over its sun-warmed skin. The fruit was heavier than she thought it'd be, a perfect sphere of vibrant color. Marta was reminded of her grandmother's voice, a soothing cadence that once instructed her on how to pick the oranges – firm but not too hard, with a balanced twist and pull. She could almost hear that familiar voice guiding her hand with invisible threads. 

 The grove was a silent oasis, with only the occasional chip of a distant bird. Martas's hands worked methodically, picking the fruit and placing them into a woven basket at her feet. With each orange she plucked, she felt a poke of nostalgia, a longing for the days when the world was simpler—a time when she felt loved and secure amidst the trees as if they were embracing her with their roots. The sun's embrace seemed to weave memories into her movements, a salve for her heart. As the basket filled, Marta took a moment to sit among the fallen leaves and half-ripe fruit. She took a bottomless breath, letting the scent of the oranges consume her. Marta realized that while the orchard has changed over the years, it's remained the same at its core. The sweet fruit– a link to her past, a reminder of when her world felt as ripe and full of promise as the fruit she carried in her basket.