Pink

Pink is not your colour, I am told. Red, that’s you.

Red as danger. Blood. Pomegranate seeds. Ferrari.

But red is also the stop signal. I don’t want to stop.

I don’t want to hear the wheels screech to a halt or a face, like a doe, looking frightened beyond the windshield, just saved from death.

I don’t want to wait for red to cross the street. I want open roads, like open doors, that I can go in and out of…roads that are not polished and shining, but are mud tracks where I can look for traces of my feet.

Of late, I have begun to embrace pink…the evening salmon-coloured sky as though the sea has risen all the way up. Candyfloss that sticks to the face like a childhood toy. Blush on cheeks as a smile creeps over the lips.

Red passion got where it was because it started out with pink, as flesh rose to burst out of skin and the creamy texture got tinged.

I did something I would not have done before. I got pink curtains, baby pink curtains. I have not yet hung them up, but I know that as the light penetrates through the window the room will glow as though it has been caressed.

One day I wore a touch of pink on my lips. It was long ago. Long ago there had been a day of pain and my teeth had bitten my lips hard to stifle a scream, a dream. Someone entered the room, someone I barely knew, and she asked, “You are wearing purple lipstick?”

I smiled. Who would ever understand that pink had been bruised?

I owe it to pink to give it back its luminescence.