sixty-one: orange

i love the colour orange. deep burnt orange, bright vibrant orange, the mellow, melancholy orange of the sunset in pocketbrit’s post, the gentle flame of candlelight or firelight, all of it. i enjoy wearing orange, and our house has splashes of orange throughout. it feels safe and comforting and alive, to me.

i like putting sweet orange essential oil in my diffuser, coz it’s lovely and clean and welcoming. also, sweet orange reminds me of my therapist, who always smells faintly of it when she hugs me.

i also think of playing soccer when i was little, one of the only girls on a team full of boys, and how at half-time, someone’s mom would bring out that old-school square tupperware container full of quartered, tangy oranges. we’d all grab handfuls at a time, biting them off the peel, juice running down our chins onto our jerseys, hands sticky, bits left behind in our gap-toothed smiles. the arcs of fine, citrusy spray that shot out as our nails pierced the pebbly skin.

i love the smell and the crunch of golden orange leaves in the fall. how something that is dying can still be so beautiful.

and orange always reminds me of india, where the most shades of orange exist in the world, i think. clothing and scarves and buildings and henna’d hair and hands and feet and the sun in hazy polluted skies and marigolds adorning statues and temples and the flesh of mangoes and musk melon. jalebi and sadhus and spices.

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