Oranges
by Sandra Dorr
(Poet Sandra Dorr read selected works last month at Telluride's Wilkinson Public Library. One of them was this Christmas narrative about "Oranges," from her book, "At Susan's Table," published by Two Rivers, Portland, 1998.)
On the great Christian holidays my family always drove Mrs. Swenson, the widow, to church.
"Now, quiet!" my mother hissed when our car stopped before her tiny blue bungalow. We all snickered at Mrs. Swenson, mad that we had to pile up in twos and threes so she could fit into the back seat. She plumped down, reeking of cloves and rose water, the circle of rouge wobbling on her cheek like Jell-o when she pinched my brother's cheek and cooed, "He's so lit-tle!" He hung his head, and she fell on Pat and me. "Well, girls. How's school?" She talked until the car stopped, and like a whirling of leaves we sprang out, breathed deeply, and arranged our wrinkled wool skirts and coats for the hour of mass.