By Sana Agarwal
lately i have strangely loved the act of peeling a clementine
of shedding it one piece at a time to get to the citrus part
picking at its curves of the peel to remove it all at once but failing to perhaps
because it is supposed to be little by little
my fingers starting to feel the tingling from it, the precise amount to make me
feel the skin on my hands
there is a certain kind of quietness to it, like the world is deciding to hold still so
you can devour your citrus
but this is different perhaps from what i’ve known
it is not a mere act of resilience or one of resurrection
but rather an act of being
and i’m realising only now that the act of stillness takes more courage than that
of a revolt
for i have spent my life training myself to peel a pomegranate, to wait patiently
as i get to the seeds my hand dripping i crimson and my mouth unfoulably hungry
i’m only learning now to let myself catch the reek of a clementine from a whole room away
to let the comfort of quietness be a recurring familiarity, to sit on my kitchen counter and indulge in the simple act of peeling a clementine, this time more gently
