Poor’ed down Sun
Prose
The concrete blocks that stooped to make their front steps were as hot as fresh fiery coals by 10am. The culprit glared down, while a girl bends to buckle what could be the last stretch of her sandal’s straps. This West Indian sun shone upon her shawled shoulders to haughtily say, good morning. Straining to cast a slanted eye back up at it, she prays for rain.
She hates the sun. Especially, when today’s sac of farine waited patiently at the head of the path that led away from home. Only heat hungry tourists craved this blaze, but what did they know. She knew that more than the weight of that sac on the broad of her back; more than the tightness that cinched her sister’s ample skirt around her willowy waist; more than the scorching sting on her feet when she slogged through the sand to sell t-shirts — more than these, it was the sun that branded her.
It charred and scoured her could-be lustrous melanin, to leave an unmistakable murk that etched “poverty” across her blackened skin.
© Wilfreda Edward 2021
This piece is inspired by my mother’s childhood in 1960s St.Lucia as the middle child of 13; and by J.D. Harms’ Wednesday prompt: “the colour says it all”. I’m grateful for both.
