The day still held a sharp residue of summer, a citric tang. Memories of those early years picking lemons off the trees, how it felt like holding the sun, sneaking bites then wrinkling our faces, a flood of yellows past washed over me like an August storm. They were hot those yesterdays, so very hot.
Memories resurfaced of times forgotten. I could almost taste the sweat rolling down my face again. It used to tickle at my lips and then hang like a mountain climber scaling an overhang waiting for gravity to do its thing. Next came the choice: lick or shake? I always licked; it was a salty temptation.
I was young, innocent, untouched by the dreams of others, instead, dwelling in my own. Life was good. Citrine was the colour of those dreams and I missed every one of them.