My grandfather died when I was three years old. The memories I have of him are few, but cherished. I used to recall a lot more, however, in time, my moments with him faded away, just like an old painting. Sometimes, when it's really cold outside and I get cozy with a cup of orange tea, I return to the winter of my third year.
It's Christmas. I'm in my bed, wrapped in covers while grandpa is sitting at the table peeling an orange for me. I gulp the small bits of the fruit, as he hands them to me, and, after I'm done with all of them, I press my hands to my face, trying to hold on to the sweet-soury smell. He looks at me with such a serene face, then he caresses my forehead and starts laughing.
The sight of me, pressing my little fingers on my face, was probably quite funny. If only I could remember the sound of his laughter. I can still recall the look on his face, but just as a part of a mute film. A film that smells like orange.
It's Christmas. I'm in my bed, wrapped in covers while grandpa is sitting at the table peeling an orange for me. I gulp the small bits of the fruit, as he hands them to me, and, after I'm done with all of them, I press my hands to my face, trying to hold on to the sweet-soury smell. He looks at me with such a serene face, then he caresses my forehead and starts laughing.
The sight of me, pressing my little fingers on my face, was probably quite funny. If only I could remember the sound of his laughter. I can still recall the look on his face, but just as a part of a mute film. A film that smells like orange.