The membrane of a blood orange, when held up to the sun, begins to resemble something that lived underwater. A sister of the urchin or sea anemone, it becomes translucent, and any remaining pulp glistens magenta, fuschia, pale yellow.
Its skin unfurls on the kitchen floor looking like the entrails of the sea creature that has loped off down the hall. His daughter leaves it there all morning, watching the light shift across the room as the fruit itself ferments, digests, and assimilates inside her body. She is curious about this external evidence of what she has eaten in sections, incorporated internally as nourishment. This discarded protective layer for that soft, seedy fruit.
She is crouched in the corner with her spine against the wall, eyes shut, furrowing. She wants to know the relationship between the way her muscles contract around undigested matter and the holding, tensing of a grief that lodges & refuses to move.
The pool where her father drowned was a shallow container, just deep enough for her small body to dive. It is shadowed with tiny purple flowers and beneath the surface, his body lingers.
For the funeral, his body was lifted on a plane and landed 3, 660 kilometers west, on the coast of India. His daughter was taken on a plane that landed 12, 823 kilometers east, on the coast of Canada.
In the space between, the purple flowers floated, blossomed in the humidity. The pool was drained soon after, but they would not tell her this. She would remain with the memory of those innocent curling petals, the instants before his death.
When she sits on the balcony above his childhood home and the light pours in, this is where she chooses to stay. Here, with the tremor of the petals on the surface of the water.
 Eden Robinson, “Terminal Avenue” (1993)