Ana Sol's oranges

When I lived in Spain, the matriarch of the family that took me in was 'una bruja' —a witch. Fortunately, the only wicked thing about Ana Sol was her sense of humor. She made endless fun of my friend, Allison, and I for everything: our clothes, our bodies, our innocent repeating of the dirtiest of curse words that we learned at the bars, not realizing they were taboo.

For some reason, one of Ana Sol's favorite targets with me was my citrus habit. Spain is known for its oranges, so I attempted to justify my gorging with geographical reasoning, but she was onto something. I've got a thing for the citrus. My grandmother used to send me crates of oranges and grapefruits when I was sad, or sometimes just out of the blue. No note, no message, just a heap of bright orange and yellow.  (How can I give that safe and seen feeling to the people I love? She always knew exactly what to do.)

My college roommate, Jami Brown, used to get H&H bagels fedexed out whenever she was blue.

Sometimes this stuff just works.

One day, over toast and jam in the kitchen, Ana Sol explained to me that according to her beliefs, oranges were spiritual agents of peace, which was why she savored my preoccupation with them.
 
When I returned to college after my semester in Spain, two of my friends and I decided to get a small tattoo together. They let me draw it up, and I adorned us with a stylized spiritual agent of peace, and our initials. I hoped my little sketch would accompany and protect us.

We graduated shortly after our little foray to the tattoo parlor. My first year after college was, to this day, one of the hardest of my life. I remember thinking I'd happily cut off a finger to be back with my girls on Hamilton street. And my two friends didn't have it any easier. Over the years, we've woven in - and sometimes, very painfully - out of each other's lives. But we've always come back around. Love you, J and A. Happy almost Valentines day. Listened to Innervisions all day yesterday and thought of you.