Oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

Usually, I don't post an entire poem if it's especially long, but this one (from our workshop last week) is too good. Besides, it's dead without all the moving pieces:

Oranges
By Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted–
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket.
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
in mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, for some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

We started with the prompt, "I remember..." pretty simple, but effective. We asked what this poem reminded them of. A group with memory/cognitive challenges means we frequently go completely off the tracks, but that's ok–

Carl remembered the prestige of having a nickel in your pocket -all the candy you could buy- and an old ice cream maker on a summer day (like I said, we get off track). For those of you who have no idea what such a thing looks like, please see photo above. Some of my fondest childhood memories are churning ice cream. Only ours was kind of wonky, so one of the younger children (read: me or my baby sister, Clare) had to sit on top of the churn while it was being cranked. We'd fold up a swim towel so our butt cheeks wouldn't freeze. This story made Carl laugh. He has a good laugh, like a story book.

Lee told us about a time he was skiing in Switzerland and got lost. He ended up crossing the border into Italy. I've spent a significant time living in places where I plainly do not belong, speak the language, or know how to count the currency. My first trip to Amsterdam, I wandered into the Red Light District where I was offered cocaine and a chance to prostitute myself. I think maybe snow skiing into the Italian Alps would have been nicer.

I'm listening to these stories and wondering if it's just me, or are some of the participants looking older? I swear Vic is suddenly aging, but still I hope it's just me. I want these people to be timeless, to go nowhere. Because they may not always stay on task, but what they remember is golden to me. Golden because it reminds me that sometimes life isn't about sticking to the path. It's about getting lost and figuring it out. And if we didn't get lost, would our paths ever cross?

It's about sharing the story. It's about ice cream churns. It's about all those lovely, simple things that tie us together. The memories that maybe have nothing to do with anything, or nothing to do with each other but –across generations– make us laugh nonetheless. It's about oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

That is what it's about.