A blaze of orange, a tropical tone in winter, glowed from a dark corner of my mother’s kitchen. Tiny heads of fresh citrus formed a delicious mound in a ceramic bowl. Lively leaves perked from their stems as if still reaching toward the sun. Too lively, I thought, to have made the trip from Florida.
“Where’d you get these?” I asked.
“A man in Statesboro grows them,” Mom said. “He’s got a stand on 301.”
“A man grows these here?”
“Yeah. I guess we can grow them here, now.”
I spent the first 18 years of my life in south Georgia and never saw a single orange tree. I thought Mom must be mistaken, but she assured me. Confused by this, I kept a suspicious eye on the fruit. And I ate a few. Each tiny segment, robust with sweet, tangy juice, enticed me more.
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