When I was much younger than I am now,
[not to say that I am old at this point in my life [but I do think that my life has a specific taste that has slowly morphed with time]]
I always saw Oranges as much bigger than they were.
I was afraid to eat one,
thinking that they would envelop every meal that could possibly have that day.
[things just seem much larger when your shoes are size five]
If an Orange seemed inevitable,
I would call it out for what it was to me:
a challenge for my baby teeth.
and my mom would break it up,
the small pulp bits becoming more significant in each piece pre-sliced by God.
Now, when I eat oranges, I always love the small abnormal slices caught in between the typical six or eight wedges of citric deliciousness,
those little pieces that fought their way into the fruit,
that conquered the lack of space,
they give me strange hope in my aspirations,
like an acorn and an Oak tree,
they are brave and delicate.