Day 17 - Quieres Naranja?
As a child, my mother would see her grandmother Josefina for visits. Those visits were accompanied with my great grandmother's Spanish, wafting through the air and into the mind of a child–my mother. And despite not speaking Spanish in her own home, my mom could understand what her grandmother was telling her. She could understand because my mother would tell me, she spoke with her eyes.
The question my mother remembers the most from Josefina was, "quieres naranja?"
The subtle gestures, asking questions, and offerings from Josefina would speak softly to my mother. There was another language being spoken between them. Love. And it translated through the years.
That same kind of love through appreciative inquiry passed through the decades. And even though she is not here, I can still feel that same love from my great-grandmother. I can imagine her patiently waiting for those short visits when my mother would come as a child and they could share those small moments. The ripple effects that carried downstream to my brothers and me.
Even more so than a "como estas?", how are you in Spanish, my grandmother would offer an orange, my mom in her child form would nod yes and smile gently to her nana. As if knowing how you were doing was already understood in the intimacies of our family gatherings, and we could speak straight to the estómago and the alma.
A careful peeling, opening, and breaking into orange slices to be shared reminds me how one orange can become so much more when shared, and the very thought that you can share it opens up the possibility of connecting through this medium between kin. La energía from the oranges cured my mother all throughout her life. Not that they were magical oranges per se, no, but they could be. A magical realism all too close to the palms of her little hands transferred from Josefina's. The warmth of an embrace. The sweet tender words when leaving, "buenas noches". The smiling and waving from leaving nana's kitchen floor.
The not knowing how hard life can be as an adult, my mother carried with her those oranges long after their decomposition.
As I've grown older, I've felt how heavy the world can become. How fear settles in the mornings and carries silently into the night. How often voices go unanswered. It can feel paralyzing. This distance between people, this forgetting of how to tend to one another.
These oranges are still alive and in my mother's kitchen. They will be in my kitchen when I arrive in Arizona. And when anyone comes over, please know that I will condense all that I want to give to you and ask with all the unspoken words in my heart, "quieres naranja?"