The box of grapefruit arrived yesterday. While my dad was alive he sent a big box of pink grapefruit from Harlingen, Texas to us for Christmas. Regardless of where we lived it would arrive in time for us to munch on throughout the holiday. The last few years things have been different without him. Not only do I miss him terribly everyday, especially when I want to tell him about M.’s professional success and W.’s college acceptances, but also the little symbols of his generosity in the fruitcake delivered from Texas, the tamales delivered from Texas, the ham delivered from Texas, and of course the pink grapefruit. Delivered from Texas. After a wait, through Christmas, we went ahead and ordered our own pink grapefruit. We have citrus trees in our yard. We have nurtured them to the point where we get baskets of giant Meyer lemons, early limes, red blood oranges, and those little yellow things that look prettier than they taste. But nothing is as good as the pink grapefruit from Texas, especially the pink grapefruit from my dad from Texas.