The Vitamin of Summer

Every Sunday afternoon, Arthur sits on his porch with his granddaughter Lily, peeling oranges before the baseball game starts on television. The ritual began forty years ago when his own father taught him the proper way to segment an orange—never dig with your thumbs, Arthur, let the peel guide your fingers.

"You know," Lily says, watching him separate the perfect crescent of fruit, "Grandpa never missed a game."

Arthur nods, handing her a slice. "Your great-grandfather believed baseball was the vitamin that kept a family healthy. Not the kind from bottles, but the kind that comes from sitting together, from shouting at the same referee, from passing around an orange during the seventh inning stretch."

The orange stained their fingers then, just as it stains Lily's fingers now. Arthur remembers the summer of 1962, when his father was already bent with age but still insisted they attend every home game. The old man would pack two oranges—always oranges, never the hot dogs other families bought. 'Vitamin C for the soul,' he'd say, though Arthur suspected it was simply that they couldn't afford anything else.

"He saved his money for weeks to buy me this glove." Arthur gestures to the weathered baseball mitt hanging on the wall, its leather soft as butter from decades of use. "Never told me where the money came from. Found out later he skipped his own heart medicine for three months."

Lily's hand stills, the orange slice forgotten. "He what?"

"Don't look at me like that." Arthur smiles, eyes crinkling. "He lived to ninety-two. Said the baseball games were better medicine anyway. And maybe he was right. We're still sitting here with our oranges, aren't we?"

On the television, the batter hits a home run. They cheer together, their voices mingling like the sweet and tart of the fruit between them. Some vitamins, Arthur thinks, watching Lily laugh, really do last forever.