Burning Oranges

“What do you mean crashed?” I said, not because I was surprised at the crash itself but at how soon the news of it came back, and then with how soon it had happened to begin, these first days of the distribution.

“Where?” I said.

They told me just down the main road, not far, out of distance for us to catch up quick and the police were already helping them back.

There was a break and the shipment was spilled.

I turned away from them at the gate, grabbed my head and pulled it in towards my throat and screamed a scream I never had or ever would again. I stood up and opened my throat to the sun, lifted my chin, let my eyes tighten, breathed clear air through a clear nose, into a clear head.

“It was just one of the smaller shipments, Boss,” he said from behind me, sniffling, congested, and yet alert, ruffled, intent. “It was only some of the oranges.”

“No,” I said, “It was all of them.”