An Orange at Lunch
I cut open my orange at lunch yesterday on my makeshift cutting board -- the box I collapsed from my frozen meal. The orange’s spray reached my nostrils, tickling my nose. And as I continued slicing, first in half, then quarters, and eighths, I chit-chatted with the other teachers like I normally do. But I was simultaneously reviewing a conversation I had just had in the hallway with a student I had in fourth grade last year. It went something like this:
"Hi Nicholas! How was your weekend?" I asked.
"Oh, great! I got a cockatoo, and then my dad and I went on an eight hour horseback ride starting from Valley Forge and..." He gave me every last detail of his adventures and his newly acquired pet.
"Whoa. That's quite a weekend, Andrew. I was in awe of what they had packed into two days. "By the way, how is your dad?"
"Ya know, Mrs. Gehman, not bad for 60. Really. Not bad."
“Can you stand it?” I thought to myself. “This kid is hysterical.” In that moment I was once again reminded about why this child had, and continues to have, such a special place in my heart. I wouldn't want to be in a job every day where I couldn't be surrounded by kids.
I continued slicing into the the orange's bright, thick peel and drew in the fresh citrus scent and noticed each delightful bright wedge.