SQUEEZE THE ORANGE

“Orange… Salute!”

There she sways in her leotard,
lost in a mob of tumblers,
chanting on naked toes.

“Form the orange,
form, form the orange…”

My daughter
the seven-year-old,
the second-grader,
who still doesn’t know
how to swim
or ride a bike.

Not from negligence
I hope you know,
but know you
don’t believe.

“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”

It is simply her nature
to be cautious,
to worry the concern
for her own safety
smooth like a stone.

I have tried to instill
a fearlessness in her
I never felt myself.

It is my duty
as a father,
as the first man
she ever loved,
to be braver
than I am.

But then I remember
the time she stepped
too deep at the city pool,
her cheeks filled
with air like balloons
ready to pop.

She needed to breathe
as she looked up at me
with closed eyes,
pleading with her tiny hands
for her daddy to save her.

“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”

She hovers, waiting;
not forming,
not peeling,
my hazel eyes crouched
in her sockets,
fingers twiddling,
feet primed to spring.

She is not as nimble
as the others,
neither statuesque
nor graceful
as God deemed in His
perfect wisdom
to deny her.

They dance in time
while she stands still.

“Squeeze the orange,
squeeze, squeeze the orange!”

She rushes her favorite teacher,
a young woman of seventeen,
and squeezes her
with all her might
as the rest of the little girls
run to catch up with her.

She knew what she was doing all along.

Now she is first
in the center
of a warm,
safe little world;
not as pretty,
or fast,
or gifted
as some of them…

But more beautiful than them all.