As I cut into an orange, I am momentarily transported back in time to a Sunday morning in my childhood home.  I am 7.  I walk into the kitchen in my Snoopy pajamas.  My mom is standing over the stove pouring pancake batter into the pan.  Her thin floral nightgown bottom peeks out of her mauve velour robe.  My dad is leaning into the formica counter, his navy terry-cloth robe loosely falling open to reveal his gorilla-hair chest and blue boxers.  

On the counter top are several cut-open oranges.  In his booming voice my dad cheerily says, "Good morning, Kacks"  to me and lifts an orange half.  Placing it on the spindly top of the small white orange juice squeezer, he pushes down with both hands as the machine lets out a grinding electric sound.  Bright orange juice begins pouring out the shoot into a tall glass.

My little sister sits at the table, her plastic rooster placemat in front of her, sipping her orange juice happily.  I sit down in front of the turtle placemat, watching my dad squeeze orange after orange, replacing one glass with another as they fill.  I look out the window behind the table.  A bluejay flies across the lush, green yard.  

My dad walks over to the table and places a glass of juice in front of me, then goes back to his post behind the juicer.  I lift the glass with both hands and drink, inhaling the sweet, clean smell of orange as the juice slides down my throat, slowed by the thick bits of pulp. Through the glass my parents and sister are distant, blurry figures moving around slowly.  I notice them but my attention is focused on the cold, delicious juice pleasing my tongue.  I keep the glass to my face until every last drop is gone. 

  "Mommy, can I have a piece of that orange?"  My 7-year-old daughter's voice does not belong in my old kitchen.  I stare down at her precious, freckled face, and smile.  "Of course you can," I tell her, lifting up an orange slice from the black granite countertop.   "But then go put your shoes on," I continue.  "The bus will be here any minute."