I studied my plump grandma sitting in a black Naugahyde swivel chair in front of the television while watching The Price Is Right. Each day at 3:00 p.m. she ceremoniously grabbed an orange ball from the kitchen counter, held it in her hands like a treasure, and walked to her designated place in the family room. Clutching the small globe, she systematically peeled the orange and then stacked the oily skins in a neat pile on an unfolded white paper napkin in her lap. Section by section, as she pulled the fruit apart I could hear each whisper tear as she separated the membranes. I watched how she chewed, deliberate and slow, so the citrus segments would break down in her mouth, disintegrating the white pith remnants. The taste of the orange’s tartness made her face tighten, eyes squint and tongue smack. After she rubbed her fingertips free of the sticky substance, the ball grew smaller until it disappeared when she popped the last segment through her open rounded lips. Nothing remained in the palm of her hand but how memories of the naked fruit emitted a fragrance bloom when I would near her.