The Orange Summer

Arthur sat on the back porch, his faded fishing hat pulled low against the afternoon sun. The pool lay before him, its water still and reflecting the clouds, just as it had for forty-three summers. But this was the last summer. His daughter Catherine had gently suggested they fill it in next spring. "Too much maintenance, Dad," she'd said, and he hadn't the heart to argue.

He peeled the orange from his tree—Margaret's tree, really. She'd planted it the year they moved in, 1972, when the backyard had been nothing but dirt dreams and stubborn hope. The fruit was small but sweet, bursting with the taste of seasons past.

"Grandpa!" Seven-year-old Lily burst through the back door, clutching Mr. Bearwitz, the teddy bear Arthur's son had carried everywhere at her age. The bear's left eye was gone, his fur matted with love, but Lily held him with the same fierce devotion her father had.

"Want to hear a secret?" Arthur patted the porch swing beside him.

Lily scrambled up, Mr. Bearwitz secure in her lap.

"That very first summer we filled this pool," Arthur said, "your grandmother—my Margaret—wore her big gardening hat into the water. She said it was to keep the sun off her face, but really, she was afraid of getting her hair wet."

Lily giggled, and Arthur felt the warmth of it settle in his chest.

"And that same day," he continued, "your dad, then just a tadpole like you, threw all our oranges into the pool. Said he was making juice. Margaret laughed so hard she cried."

He handed Lily a segment of orange. She nibbled it thoughtfully.

"Grandpa, can we save the pool?"

Arthur looked at the water, at the ghosts of cannonball contests and midnight swims, at the echo of Margaret's laughter and the patter of small feet.

"No, my love. Everything has its season." He squeezed her hand. "But we'll plant something new. Maybe orange trees. Maybe a garden for Margaret's hat to shade."

Lily nodded slowly, understanding something about the way time moves forward even when we want to stay put. Mr. Bearwitz seemed to agree, his remaining button eye watching the water with quiet wisdom.

Arthur finished his orange as the sun began to set, turning the pool liquid gold. Some things end, he thought. But love—love just changes shape, like water, like the seasons, like the way a child's bear becomes her child's bear too.