The color of strawberry cupcakes sickly in their sweetness.
Of iced cookies that shout “It’s a girl!”
Of shiny, sticky lip gloss and bright candy press-on nails.
The color of pretty, of femininity, of sleepover invitations.
Of Barbie, Britney Spears, and bubble gum.
Of diluted blood in white cotton fabrics.
Of removing the evidence of your womanhood.
Of shame.
Of giant bows perched upon bald infant heads for fear of a slight that matters not to the baby, but is a wound for the mother and father.
Of camelias and southern belles in wide dresses made to resemble them.
This color forced upon me via gifts and handmade clothes.
This color I came to despise in its expectations, roles, and rules it had thrust upon me.
The hatred for the keep sweet, pray, and obey of it all.
The color of girlhood.
This color that my son holds dearest.
The color of his baseball glove and his favorite scrunchie.
Of the karaoke machine he sings football team theme songs.
The glittery shirts and light up sneakers he gravitates towards at the thrift shop.
His special nail polish.
His fluffy bear costume.
Of the phlox he places so gently in my hand on our days out in the park.
Of the small sweaty toes he presents with an invitation to smell before his bath.
Of the watercolor paintings he creates while I fold his pink tank tops.
Of the sunsets we watch after a long day drifting in the rivers or leaving the grocery store.
The color of his cheeks after an hour at the playground.
Of the scar on his head from his daredevil antics.
The color I have grown to love through the love that he expresses.
The color of boyhood.
This was in response to a prompt provided by the magnificent Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams in her Lyric Essay online workshop hosted by Orion. I was fortunate enough to attend this session and her in person workshop at Omega Institute in June. I will be beaming from the experiences I had this summer for years to come.
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