Orange

One sweltering afternoon,

the sour yet extra sweet zing

of the tangerine powdered drink

quenches my thirst like the parched earth

after a monsoon.

…

With a gander, I see grandfather

sitting on his plastic lawn chair, barely shaded

from the scorching sun by our rusted metal roof.

…

What was once dark-brown hair

that glowed orange in the sunlight,

is a palette of wispy whites

and greys.

…

His favourite ochre, threadbare shorts now sag around his waist,

fruitlessly shielding his waxy, pallid skin resembling a frail citrus peel

with golden bruises and wounds that seldom heal.

…

Immediately, grandfather’s bright-yellow merry mood

becomes a fiery scarlet of fury as he croaks,

“that’s the last of the sugar.”

…

Crumpled paper bills and dull copper coins

rustle and jingle in my tiny palms

on my way to the corner store.

…

The click-clack of my amber, two-sizes-too-big flip flops echo

as I amble through the deserted neighbourhood.

…

Soon the hazy sunset darkens while the unseen sea

of crickets keeps me company

with their solemn symphony.