A Ring of Citrus

A dried slice of sweet orange was resting flat on a small slate trivet by the kitchen breadbox. I paused for a quiet breath, watching how the morning light caught its translucent amber ribs. Shuffling forward one patient step at a time, I eased both paws around the stiff, leathery rim. It felt surprisingly light and brittle, carrying a faint, tangy perfume. Very gently, I propped the slice upright against the cool ceramic side of a butter crock. It didn't tip. Leaning my weight back against the solid breadbox, I sat watching the sun shine right through the golden wheel, neat and still.