TANGERINES

TANGERINES
by Terry Burres



Whenever I smell tangerines I can close my eyes and suddenly I’m nine, or ten at my grandma’s house on Christmas Eve. I loved tangerines then, and with six people in our family I seldom had the chance. My grandma and grandpa always had them at Christmas for me, my sisters, and my brother.

I can feel the tingle on my lips that always happened when I bit the peel to make a hole to open it. The juice’s sweet stickiness coating my fingers. The bite of the wedge that seemed to hide beside the sweet others waiting for me to taste just that one surprise.

I remember the tree grandpa always put up on their windowed front porch. A silver aluminum tree that stood in it’s stand on the wooden box grandpa had made. The tree was raised up enough so that it could be seen. A colored light shone on the tree. Flashing first red, then blue, then yellow. A whole rainbow would flash on the tree over and over. I could sit for hours watching that tree change colors.

Under the tree set the manger that my grandpa built. The stable was very large. All of the figures were small. All except the angel;who was too tall to fit inside the manger. She had to stand on the roof with her arms spread wide guarding the Baby Jesus as sheperds and wise men visited the stable.

I remember the warmth, the joy, the love, and the wonder of Christmas Eve spent with my grandma and grandpa every time I smell tangerines.