Oranges at the Water's Edge

The baseball sat on her dashboard like a relic from another life—scuffed leather, faded signature, the seams unraveling at the edges. Elena hadn't been to a game since David died three years ago. Some mornings, she'd start the car and that damn ball would roll across the dashboard, settling against the windshield like it was trying to get her attention.

She parked at the marina, the one where they'd scattered his ashes. The water was glass-calm today, reflecting a sky the color of a bruised peach. In her passenger seat sat the grocery bag—five oranges, their skins impossibly bright against the gray interior. David's favorite. He'd eat them whole, peel and all, claiming the bitterness made the sweet worth it.

"You're doing it again," her sister had said over coffee yesterday. "Romanticizing the dead. He wasn't some poet, El. He sold insurance and complained about traffic."

But her sister didn't remember how David had thrown a baseball with their son in the backyard until his hands shook from the neuropathy. Didn't remember how he'd squeezed oranges into Jamie's sippy cup when the juice machine broke, laughing as pulp sprayed everywhere.

Elena walked to the end of the dock, oranges heavy in her pockets. The water lapped against pilings, a rhythmic sound like breathing. She pulled out the first orange, tore into it with her fingernails. The scent exploded—citrus and memory, flooding her senses. She took a bite, peel and all, and immediately spat it into the water.

Bitter. God, it was bitter.

"You were right," she whispered to no one. "It's not worth it."

She tossed the remaining oranges one by one into the harbor. They floated briefly before sinking, like small orange suns going down. Then she reached back into her pocket and pulled out the baseball. She'd kept it all this time—what had she expected? That holding onto his things would keep holding onto him?

Her arm moved before she could talk herself out of it. The ball sailed out in a perfect arc, disappearing beneath the surface without a splash.

The water smoothed over immediately. No ripples. No evidence she'd ever been there at all.

Elena wiped her sticky hands on her jeans and walked back to her car. The dashboard looked empty without that scuffed white ball rolling across it. Empty, she thought, starting the engine. And clean.