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You wear your elegant final shades of mustard, amber and curry like Easter bonnets.
“Notice me,” you say, “since I’ll go elsewhere until spring and then return as chartreuse.”
I do notice.
I take every second of it in, knowing in six weeks, there will be only dark brown and gray, occasionally covered in white.
I hate to say goodbye to the warmth of greens.
Like the trees, my body turned vivid colors. No one warned me this would happen, or that I would be so alarmed. I noted those color names too: mauve, red and blue plum, and finally a dark, dirty yellow as the bruises faded.
I looked beaten to a pulp, especially my arms and legs. The doctor said, “Stop taking the coated aspirin you’ll have enough blood thinner with just the Plavix”. He added, “be patient” as I counted some 50 bruises.
Naming colors gives them identity. One would not leave a newborn unnamed. Everyone knows what color mustard is, more or less; it’s yellow with a hint of brown. What I had in mind though is Colman’s; the dry powdered brand that comes in a tin.
My father’s eyes were the brightest blue I‘d ever seen that day.
I didn’t know he’d already died when I saw him on the gurney being raced to x-ray.
He’d had a massive cerebral hemorrhage.
There’s no name for that shade of blue.
I bid farewell to mustard amber and curry. I can taste them in my mind when I can no longer see them.