Crimson sky

On a night walk to the market before closing time, the insects buzz and chirp. The pulse of the summer grows harder in certain trees and tall shrubs on the path, under the opened windows with a faint glow of warm light shining from the inside of a beautiful home with an elaborate facade. At night, on those special streets hidden under the city blanket, I can see the twinkle of stars in the sky and puffs of white clouds that remain clear as day in the cluster of street lamps glowing in the distance.

Fall starts with rain, the heat of summer still clinging to the air. I lean my elbow on the foggy windowsill of a rush hour train, and concentrate on the book I am holding in front of me over the plump bag on my lap. A passenger seated beside me presses against my body when the others push in and out of the train, and I feel almost unaware of any physical contact as I devour the pages of the book one after the other.

Why is it often the case, we find ourselves under a downpour only to see it over by the time we reach our front door?

I still do not own a proper pair of shoes for when it rains.

A wet coat hangs on the wire fence outside, in place of a purse, and then two, that stood in the same spot days before. It is as though someone left their clothes outside the way one haphazardly places them at home. I wonder if whoever left their coat, soaked in the rain, will pick it up tomorrow on the way out.

On the beach, the water is warm and the sand is soft and white as snow. Our blue and white stripped towels are placed in such a way that their edges are touching, so not to have a gap of sand in between. I use his coral linen shirt to cover my head, making a little tent to shield from the sun. Then I join in slumber, lying down on my side, and place my arm on his chest to make sure he's there while I fall asleep. We listen to the gentle rush of waves and faint sound of tropical music playing across the harbor. I drift away with the warmth of the breeze, and then awake to the sensation of drops of rain on the back of my thighs.

The sunset is more beautiful after it has set. Afterwards, the sky turns into brilliant shades of orange and magenta. The sunrise, on the other hand, is most beautiful before. The sky is a smooth pastel pink and violet, cool and warm all at once.

The summer ends with a crimson sky.

In my diary, I cross out the past and future tense verbs, practicing being present.

No comments:

Post a Comment


© 2018-present by the author. All writing found on this blog is copyrighted material, unless otherwise referenced, of the author. Use without permission will cause incessant hiccups.




Enter your email address to be notified of new posts via email: