The Last Orange Sunset

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, peeling the last orange from the tree Richard had planted twenty-five years ago. The citrus scent filled the silence of the house—so quiet now since the funeral. Her fingers stained with juice, she thought about how Richard used to say that oranges were the only fruit that tasted like sunshine itself.

She dropped a section into her water glass, watching it float like a small, forgotten planet. The nurse had told her to stay hydrated, as if water could wash away the grief that had settled into her bones like arthritis. Margaret took a sip, the bittersweet flavor blooming on her tongue—a perfect metaphor for the last three months.

Down at the harbor, the bull sea lions were barking their territorial claims to anyone who'd listen. Richard had loved walking there, making up stories about their drama. "That one's the corporate boss," he'd say, pointing to the scarred male with the broken flipper. "And those smaller ones? They're the middle management trying to pretend they matter."

The waves crashed against the pylons, a rhythm that had underscored their marriage through job losses, her miscarriage, his chemotherapy. Water had always been their element—sailing, beachcombing, simply sitting on the sand watching the tide reshape the shoreline, the way grief reshapes everything it touches.

Margaret walked to the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The sky turned that bruised orange color that comes just before true dark, the color of transitions. She thought about how Richard would hate seeing her like this—stagnant, waiting for something that wouldn't return. He'd always said life was about momentum, about riding the waves rather than fighting them.

She finished her water, pulp and all, and picked up her phone. The real estate agent's number was still in her recent calls. The house was too big, too full of echoes. Maybe it was time to sell, to finally let go of the life they'd built together so she could start building something new—even if she had no idea what that would be.

Outside, the last light faded. Tomorrow, Margaret decided, she'd drive to the ocean. She'd let the water spray against her face, salty and alive. She'd watch the bulls fight over their tiny patches of rock, and she'd remember that nature didn't mourn—it simply moved on, relentless and beautiful and absolutely indifferent to human sorrow.

And then she'd come home and peel another orange from Richard's tree, and she wouldn't cry.