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Being orange trees

Lee-Ann Fialkov

Maybe we shouldn’t sit here so neatly. Like a neatly drawn
line.
Like oranges lined up on a windowsill. Oranges from orange
trees.
But we were children then, and we were our own trees,
waiting in turn
For someone to claim us. For someone to free our heavy arms
and take
Our love home. In carts and wagons, trucks or buses. We
just needed
to be freed. It was easy then, to be orange trees. To hold
our arms up
towards the sun and to ward off enemies with our fingers
and our
smiles, while real children drove by on bicycles or on the
back of
trucks; without fruit, without the weight of soil at their
feet. We
stood silent but proud. Proud and neat. Like trees watching
the
seasons pass us by as children got older and inherited
brothers and
sisters. But we were children then and we were our own
seasons.
Windswept and raked on the outside. Damp and raw on the
inside.
All the time waiting for the harvest as we dreamed of
toffee and
Lipstick kisses, coffee cup stains and the backs of cereal
boxes.
But we were children then and waiting was just a game. A
game we
played neatly. In a line. While being orange trees.


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