Tigers and One Red Kite
This strange season Two things I can’t get used to – the different smells and the sky. I brace myself as I walk out of my door every morning. The air smells like hot, sweet petrol. Breathing is like biting off chunks of air. I asked XinXin this evening if the sky ever cleared. “Oh, yes, one day last year the sky was blue and there were even clouds in the sky.” The sun is a hazy patch in the smog as it rises in the morning and then is not seen again. I watch from the window in my room as the orange smudge marks another day in China. Behind is me the ironing board bed, already made. On the dresser, a green flask of tepid water and a pear that looks like a Harvest moon. On a good day, the tops of the buildings are visible. My eyes are constantly gritty, and my nose runs non-stop from the irritation. When I get home, I’m going to lie on the grass and feel the space under my tall African sky. The low, grey sky makes this a strangely closed, colourless place. There are...