BLUE
I have a memory kaleidescope. It lies in a silver chest under my pillow. In this box of potpourri, there are small blue flowers. They are the blue sky of my childhood in the Philippines. Days of climbing the tree in the back yard that towers above and shades, my grandparents house. I scramble up the tree swiftly and nimbly with one hand and barefeet, my other hand grasping a book. Laughing, pigtails swaying, I shimmy up the tree, the route permanently etched in my subconscious. There, perched on a limb above the rooftop, in the shade of the leaf laden branches above me, I sat with my back against the trunk and turned to the first page of Tolkien's "The Hobbit". Unconsciously picking the small sweet pinkish berries offered by my tree, I popped them into my mouth without even taking my eyes off the page. Sucking the sweet nectar and then spitting the pulp down to the ground beneath, I take a moment to savor the precious gift of solitude in a secret place. The simple pleasures of cool breezes, blue sky and green shade. Yes, my blue jewels, sometimes I pull them out from hiding and enjoy them all over again.
Orange
Fiery red and bright yellow, make the most beautiful golden flame color! My memory
makes me smile. Soft dried mango peels mixed in with rose petals and jasmine blossoms, smells like the tropics. Smells like home. It brings back those days of being a child in my father's mango groves. I loved mangos (I still do), and the groves were filled with trees heavy with the scent of ripe mangos! There, see all of the baskets sitting beneath each tree, overflowing with fiery orange mangos, ripened on the branch? They are so sweet that bees are swarming in and around them frustrated at not being able to sip their nectar. It's as if the trees themselves gently picked themselves clean and delicately filled each basket with their offering to their caretakers. I could almost see the trees smiling, beckoning me, "Come, eat!" And so I went smiling, lips smacking, hands clapping and plopped myself down between two big baskets. The smell of the ripe fruit made my mouth water. My small hands grasped the biggest mango in sight and I proceeded to sink my teeth into the soft skin, tearing and peeling it from the juicy flesh beneath. Meanwhile I could feel
the watchful trees, pleased with my delight, they swayed left and right as if dancing and exclaiming with joy, "See how good they are? She is truly enjoying of bountiful offerings. Have we not produced the most delicious mangos in all of the Philippines?" And then, my little pouch of a belly, full and my face, now the same color as the ripe mangos, I lay against the tree trunk, sighing, smacking my lips, and orange colored mango juice running down my arms. I finally stood and looked up at the trees and smiled. They seemed to understand my way of saying thanks, and they waved goodbye. I skipped away towards the artesian well across from the mango groves beside a cluster of shade trees next to the caretakers bamboo hut home. The well was more like an above the ground swimming pool only it was a box made of concrete with water flowing from a deep well under the ground, into it and out from it to the rice fields. I climb into the concrete pool and wash off the juices which had become nice and sticky on my face, arms and hands. My sisters and brother are already there jumping up and down splashing me in the face. Ah, the simple delights of childhood in the Philippines.
