Hope Was Her Favorite Color

She was tired of being a stereotype. She wanted to throw that part of herself to the wind.
Yeah, yeah, new year, new you, do great things, resolve to be greater. Her Facebook feed was like a blender of self help books and she didn’t want to learn about what you did this past year from the pixels on a screen. She wants to breathe it in with you, figure out the way your mouth looks when it’s smiling in a daydream.
So she didn’t know what to do. 1/365, they said. Write the first page of your story. She wanted to burn the history books and set fire to everything that’s the same, rain on ideas of renewal and just do something, something that makes life worth living.
She was starting to feel it, creeping silkily into her veins, a shot of liquid fireworks. Exactly what she needed even though she didn’t know what it was, an energy, a light, after months of living with that kind of sadness that pokes its head in the door then settles in and becomes a friend, a constant companion. The kind that always says, I don’t want to go there or do that because I am afraid and the shadows told me not to. The kind that keeps you from meeting those moments where you suddenly find yourself crashing through the way the perfect song fills your lungs and makes you feel like your breath is infinite and beautiful.
She turned up that song on her old blue iPod, the kind of thing you own that only other people notice because its been in front of you for so long.
And she drove through, on toward memories. Somehow from a wrong turn or maybe a right one, she made it to that stretch of road she used to drive on two summers ago in the sun and the mountains of a perfect expanse of time.
This time it felt different. She rolled down the windows so that the air became the rushing soundtrack in her ears.
She smiled to herself because she didn’t want to be a stereotype, but that sunset was singing like she’d never seen; hope was her favorite color, burning bright, tigers butting heads and bursting into a screaming mosaic of yellow dreams.
It made her feel all right.
She’d still lost the people she lost, she’d still miss the people she misses, not everything was going to change, and her friend sadness would always find a way to reconnect. But she felt it, in that fire painted horizon and the way her car climbed up the hill across the lake sprayed by the flecks of gold in the sun. Possibility in the fire, in the rain. The next year was going to be okay.

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10 thoughts on “Hope Was Her Favorite Color

  1. Or: “Hope” is the thing with feathers – / That perches in the soul – / And sings the tune without the words – / And never stops – at all –

    as Ms Dickinson had it…all the best to you & for you before the page

    May all be well,

    Alexander Booth

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