He always smelled oranges just before the seizure started-
it was the only warning he got.

I picture him now,
in a room without windows,
turning his head toward the smell of summer,
the smell of childhood,
the smell of something long forgotten.

And I see his mouth curving into a smile,
just before his eyes roll back
and his body tenses rhythmically.

I hope in that moment,
just before,
that he thinks he is outside
in the bright light of the summer sun
turning toward me
as I try to pass him the slice of orange I saved –
just for him,
just for now.

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