When I was a girl,
my favorite color was tulle.
The blush of a tutu.
The satin of a pointe shoe.
I believed.
When I was a young woman,
my favorite color was Imari.
An underglaze of blue, an overglaze of red, gold, and black.
It always seemed the blue was fighting for air,
to be heard and seen.
When I was a wife,
my favorite color was French -
a countryside of green meadows and blue skies. An amber sun
rising. I painted all the walls of our house yellow.
I was hopeful.
But somewhere along the way colors muted.
A dampness came. A light buried
deep inside the earth.
A hole by any other name.
I was lost.
You hurt me, I said –
in my mind.
To say it out loud would only result in deflection.
Redirection.
Hollow words upon a thick shield of blame.
Hurt is not allowed,
it never has been.
And if you feel it,
well… that is your fault.
I lost so many years
trying to please.
Someone. Anyone.
Swimming in a bowl too small.
Behind a wall of pain.
How long can you abandon yourself?
The death of a world.
Relationships shed like the slow peel of an apple.
An onion skin,
tears falling.
And still, the walls of the heart remain open.
For in the core lies the seed and even the seed
from a withered brown fruit which has nothing
to give but so much to take
brings
fresh life.
What’s your favorite color? He asked.
I thought for a moment before responding
a blended pallet of rusted earth.
A rift between uprisings.
Worn-in, dusty jeans.
The musk of a horse’s neck.
The blush of a sunset,
muddled orange and pink across desert ridges.
And in that moment, I knew
the earth rotates my direction.
The seed has sprouted. The wall has fallen.
A season has begun.
I am now what I was always meant to be.
I am the core.
Comments