It is that time of year!

When the yellow warmed my city,
And the lazy mornings were filled with a golden hue;
When every day, I woke up to the familiar call of a man who trudged with the most splendid canvas of fruits, across the dusty streets,
And his mangoes, while being rationed at our dinner table, withstood our expectant gazes.

It is that time of the year,
When the streets of my city were lit with amaltas,
And a pop of yellow in the snow-cone brightened up my day;
When the sweat beads glimmered on every face,
And the brown uniform skirts gave way to the beaming yellow frocks.

It is, once again, that time of the year,
When I waited through the day for a man whose resounding voice betrayed the deep lines of his face, his head warped in a soiled, yellow headband, and his cart warmed with plenty of abu-challis buried under the sand;
His yellow corn sticks unfailingly brought a smile to my grandma’s wrinkled face;
Today especially, I remember it.

I am thousands of miles away from my city, staring at Pines through my glass window;
It is, once again, that time of the year,
And yet, it is not.