Nobody knew,
that sunny December breakfast in our home
was our last supper with you:
scrambled eggs pulled, runny, off the stove,
they popped and sizzled on the way to our plates;
biscuits, dropped by careful spoonfuls
onto a sheet of parchment,
then drenched with honey and jam;
and clementine oranges.
You praised the way they peeled,
so easy, no mess,
and I felt a child's pride.

This time each year
I buy more, another crate of memories
and never check the price.
I dig hard nails through the rind
and the sour fragrance stays with me
long after the sweetness is gone.