She Still Asks Me to Peel Oranges For Her

A Poem

She still asks me to peel oranges for her,

And I do. I do because she is perfectly capable

Of peeling her own oranges, but she

Still asks me.

This is a child who make her own quesadillas,

Who can sit at a piano and play music by heart,

Who can create the most detailed and intricate

Costumes from scratch, out of thin air.

But she never fails to ask me to peel her oranges and I will,

I will because of everything that I fear,

And I fear a great deal, I fear the most that

She will stop asking me.

Because that would be the end

That would be some level of finality

I’m not yet ready to endure

An end to her still needing me

In the most basic of ways.

And because it’s something so mundane,

So incredibly simple and comfortable,

Because she can do that easily, then

I know she doesn’t need me.

Rather, she wants me to continue that task for her,

Not because I’m good at peeling oranges

(Though frankly, try me, I’m really quite good)

But it’s her way of keeping me close.

If she’s 30 and my joints scream of arthritis

I will peel oranges for her. And then

Someday, far far into the future, I’ll let go

And let her peel an orange for me. But not today.