There is no time but the time in the kitchen. My father loses track of days, and I buy a "clock" whose only hand moves from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday, as if distinguishing between the days were important. The kitchen walls may measure a passage of time, but past and future are nothing within the space of the kitchen.
Dad is hungry for a clementine; my three-year-old daughter Sarah is hungry for a clementine. I peel one for her and feed her the wedges; my mother peels one for my father. Five minutes later, they do not remember having eaten—may they have an orange? They eat, and then they each put their sticky hands in mine. Dad grins at my mother. In any given hour, he is no more dying than Sarah is getting older. The moment is sweet and I would hold it forever. Just a clementine; then a clementine.