I’ve been following along with the Isolation Journals writing prompts throughout Covid and here is a small piece about the color purple.
Purple is the laughter after your father told you bedtime stories when he was home from a business trip. He’d twist the unfortunate fate of grandma in Little Red Riding Hood into a tale of the dangers of heart burn and not packing the right tools in your basket; how humpty dumpty could fix himself with his Krazy Glue; how the three little pigs actually weren’t so little after all. It is the quiet smile you crack remembering these.
Purple is the weight of the polaroid, heavy between your fingers as you sift through boxes and boxes of unorganized pictures. It is the smell of your grandmother’s perfume trapped in a box with pictures of friends and family you have never met, but a gnawing warmth grows in your chest as you flip through the glossy stacks.
Purple is the first bite of plum, juicy and tart. Plums are always on the periphery – no one seems to go out of their way to eat with joy or purpose, a fruit that you snack on because someone else brought it, but you are not sure who. And though it is gently sweet, and holds back thirst, you want it to be more. The loud explosion of an orange, the crisp crunch of an apple, the burst of sweet juice as you plop another strawberry in your mouth. But all purple is the mellow taste of remembering something better.
Purple is the sweet smell of dew drops clinging to the grass in the early morning. It is the dampness of the fog on your face packing your car for a long journey ahead, eyes itchy with sleep and the lingering scent of damp asphalt, sighing at the relief of the early morning quiet.
Purple is the hazy memory you are grasping at in the back of your head. The name of the man you bought your car from or the hostess who sat you at the restaurant last week, the street of your childhood bully – hazy, shapeless, but on the tip of your tongue. You are sitting with friends, recounting the story of the worst date you have had but, can’t remember what you ate and though the detail is small, its accuracy is vital to the rest of your tale. It is the gnawing feeling of not wanting to forget, but slowly letting the memory fade.