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In the spring of 2026, while studying abroad in Italy, I received a huge brown package, postmarked from Iowa on my birthday. The package was filled with well-wishing letters and notes from my friends that had been collected by my sister, who is also a ��͹��Ƶstudent. At the bottom of her own letter, in my sister's soft looping handwriting, was this poem:

"The Orange"

By Wendy Cope

At lunchtime, I bought a huge orange—

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—

They got quarters, and I got half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

July lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I’m glad I exist.

I sat on my bottom bunk in Italy, filled with happiness. It was sunny, I had just eaten a hearty lunch, and I’d gotten letters from everyone I loved most on the same day. We’ve all enjoyed moments like these, when we are overcome by happiness. It is delightful how sometimes joy comes so unexpectedly, yet it makes me wonder where that joy is the rest of the time.

Each line of “The Orange” brims with joy. “At lunchtime, I bought a huge orange—” the poem begins with a common lunchroom fruit, yet something about this orange is extraordinary. Its size makes everyone laugh. From this surprising image, the poem pivots into the deep joy of friendship in the line about sharing with Robert and Dave.

Everything in the world, no matter how ordinary, is better when shared with friends. I doubt the voice of this poem would have laughed at the orange if they were alone, but with company, the ordinary piece of fruit brings three people together for a moment of shared myth. It reminds me of the late nights I’d come back to my apartment to find my roommate making a huge pot of ramen, and how—eating it together—we would talk late into the night about everything on our minds.

The second stanza of the poem bursts with excitement: “And that orange, it made me so happy,/ As ordinary things often do.” The line is filled with child-like innocence and wonder. It reminds me that true happiness often feels like returning to an earlier time. Kids are so good at seeing the world in the way this poem does—bright and full of possibility and wonder.

It’s easy for me to look past the landscape of my life towards my many hypothetical futures, past the daily commute, and eating lunch, and the small, scattered conversations. “The Orange,” however, insists on the small things. It says that happiness has already arrived. “The rest of the day was quite easy./ I did all the jobs on my list and had some time over.” Suddenly, a long list becomes easy and disappears. This line captures the contentment of a job well done, and afterwards, rest, in the line, “some time over.”

The poem's ending is beautiful: “I love you. I’m glad I exist.” These words are Wendy Cope’s, but they were written by my sister. She took up her pencil and jotted them down on the last sheet of a care-filled letter. I picture her writing at a window, sitting in a square of bright afternoon light. Here, the poem’s voice discovers a love of self in an expression of love for another. Following love is gladness, the notion of being content with and pleased by something, in “The Orange,” by life itself. I sense a slight pause after the “I love you.” The next sentence, “I’m glad I exist,” is almost a surprise to the voice of the poem, a realization only made possible through the act of love. After all, it is only through loving others that we learn to love ourselves.

Life is not always as full of joy as in “The Orange.” It can’t be. Yet this poem proves to me that happiness lies dormant in every cracked corner of our lives. In every line, love compounds and grows, until it can no longer be contained by image and metaphor, and must be spoken directly to the reader. It puts love at the very center, where it belongs, and somehow, everything else works out. “The Orange" makes me want to say every day to someone, “I love you,” to myself, “I’m glad I exist.”