Changing Colors

A pale sunlight only partly had dressed the windowpane. The lemons in the kitchen looked like limes. The metal pots and pans did not gleam but were pastel-washed with a dewy lip-gloss. The kettle was ready, it strained its spout as if impatient to turn the air into warm Irish mist. Father entered in his baggy white underpants, he always shaved in the kitchen. His open razor scraped slowly at his blue chin like an old push-along grasscutter. Mother flushed the toilet that I and father had forgot to do. School was 3 miles away, and I had to change the paintbox of my ordinary life in order to shine amongst friends.