The orange I’ve just picked from the tree

High Street Balzan, Malta, 2017

I take a paring knife and slice off the top and bottom of the orange I’ve just picked from the tree. With steady hands, I make vertical slits down its sides, spacing them evenly. Setting the knife aside, I begin peeling away the skin, trying to lift the pith along with it. Now left with the bare fruit, I separate the segments, lifting each one to my mouth—savoring them with pleasure and joy.

My thoughts begin to drift—memories of my mother’s wartime stories surface.

“We were short of food,” she would often say, speaking of the war. “Some days, all we had were the oranges from our garden.”

I should have asked her to tell me more. By the time I began to take an interest in her past, her memory had already begun to fade.

She was twelve years old when Italy declared war on the Allies. In the years that followed, Malta endured relentless aerial attacks. The island was under siege, and food supplies began to dwindle.

“Our family home took in refugees, and I was always calling out to my mother to get herself down to the shelter! The air raids were persistent. Nanna always took her time! Always fearing the worst, I’d lift Aunty Ina from her crib and carry her downstairs. One time, a blast from a nearby bomb caused me to drop her down the stairs. No harm came to her—surely a miracle!”

How is it that the sweetest, juiciest fruit of all would cause her to grimace? Was it the tingling sensation on her tongue, or the indelible pain of wartime memories—memories that could not be peeled away so easily?

Taken at San Anton Gardens, 2017

Dedicated to Mama and written for Berkhamstead Poetry Society May 2025.