:

The days are as layered as my clothes and I long for the spit of Jacaranda lacing a pot holed street.
I race the highways and northern wind tosses me about, while my thoughts are caught in a scene of a warm shaded veranda, afternoon tea, Belgian biscuits and fruit from a tree. African dirt clogs my pores. It hangs around my neck on a chain, tangled, taunting. A carrot in front of a white girl.
My pot of chai boils and evaporates, as though it never was. It floats in the kitchen air leaving behind a heavy playful scent forcing late comers to use their imagination. With gentle force it's smell steps me into the past, as though I am redrinking my childhood through someone else’s teeth. It's an early morning school day smell, the kind that takes you back and awakens that little part of you that had forgotten how uniquely sweet chai can be.
But it is not a ghost and I am not a horse, and we will meet again in beautiful tea time reality.
H.A.