Orange memories

First came the fruit: from China,
through the Persians and the Spanish,
to the French and then to us.
Its dimpled skin clings softly
to the tasty fruit below with strings of white,
but when it proved too challenging to separate,
my mom would cut the orange into quarters for my dad,
who'd stuff it in his mouth, skin out,
and come to find me, beaming his orange smile.

Which might explain my preference
for the taste, and for the color,
which speaks to me of intimacy, and innocence;
shared laughter at small things,
the silliness we find in families:
that loss I so regretted
when he married someone else
and left us all behind -- the teasing,
the memories, his granddaughters,
and me.