Freshly green

Oranges before they ripen are this colour of green,

fresh green: they are tiny and teeth tighteningly sour.

I can barely remember baje’s (grandpa’s) face,

but this memory plays in a hd screen.

His huge wrinkled, vein adorned hands handing me those tiny green oranges,

his coarse fingers peeling them as my baby hands struggled,

his arms extending quietly to hand me a piece,

and the teeth rattling sourness that assaulted my toddler tastebuds.

Not much before or after this scene.

I am sure my love and longing has painted the reality of it evergreen,

for instance, I see myself clean and pristine,

my baje taller and his clothes pressed.

Nevertheless, his love for me transcends still,

even through this unreliable memory of mine.

When I was twelve, I liked this boy.

Unwrapping a green lollipop, he claimed it to be his favourite colour.

I was fresh into this new country that I now had to call home,

still carrying the smell of the green hills and white himals (mountains).

How would I ever imagine my bumpkin-ness would be their new toy?

for years, with their taunts and nicknames directed towards me, they stayed amused.

Naïve me, gullible until there was nothing left of me for them to devour.

Adolescent heart purpled and bruised,

from eyes and words of love I still cower.

Inside me I have set up a green zone,

a botanical sanctuary of my own,

with a filtration system to sieve out weapons that could bruise,

and a net at the bottom to catch my freefalls into the blues.

The net is more of a leafy bed,

At times with tears its wet, I wither with dread.

Others,

I’m trimming the overgrowns with a gardening hat on my head.

Growth is a bumpy road, with a deceptively simple map that only seems to confuse,

Still, I am burgeoning with hope, as with patience and love this green haven I plan to infuse.