A yellow word, from twenty-six year old memories
of wooden desks
and white walls
amid hundreds of strangers.
There were topographical maps,
drifting continents,
and ox bow rivers,
flattened images on paper,
while birds and winds and clouds danced beyond the windows.
I could see my best friend's new house
from inside the classroom. Just like that she moved on.
There was a rumour that the matric geography teacher flirted with the pretty girls. Ours was old and strict, and bored.
We measured. Made dots and drew lines.
We marked spaces, wrote words and traced symbols.
The deserts were inside us and we were drowning.
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