The Smell of Orange…

The smell of orange reminds me of summer in Antigua. But not just any kind of Antigua summer… the summer of my childhood. The smell of orange reminds me of 8 year old summer. All heat and no rain; days so bright you had to squint like a chiney-man just to see down the road; begging granny everyday to go to the beach even though you knew she’d always say “lawd jesus if you don’t move dis chile from in front me face!” (or some other variation of “no”). Roaming the neighbourhood with all the other children, making up games featuring the abandoned house down the road with the cassie trees overgrowing it to the point of near total reclamation. That was our castle or fortress or dungeon or lookout spot, depending on the world our play wanted us to be in. Playing with my older brother and our alter egos, Touncan and Tell, in the backyard that seemed so much larger then.



Now why the smell of orange takes me there, I honestly couldn’t tell you. Its not like my childhood summers were full of oranges (if anything oranges were scarce like good gold and mangoes were plentiful). Look, summertime in Antigua equals mangoes! Mango fu bang dawg! Logic would suggest that the smell of mangoes take me back there, that way; but it doesn’t at all. Only the smell of orange does that. Only the smell of that summer-less fruit can invade my memory and flood my consciousness with 3D images of that 8 year old summer of no more school, hot days and endless fun, roaming.



Writing prompt: in ten minutes finish this sentence: The smell of orange reminds me of…


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