When I was younger, I loved yellow. I loved the old, heavy jewellery that my grandmother gave me, loved the sun that beckoned me to play, loved the dandelions I'd wish on.
But maybe I didn't always love it so well as I do now, maybe it only seems natural to have loved it all my life, as I have loved her.
(Because here's a secret:
"What's your favourite colour?"
She thought about it for a minute or so, her face scrunched in concentration. I loved that about her, every answer she gave was chosen carefully, even when it was about something so mundane as my favourite colour. It made it seem like the whole world spun on her words. My world certainly did.
(Gods, when did I get this sappy?)
And then her eyes sparked, and she turned to me and shouted "Yellow!"
And I wanted to say "No, turquoise", but that would've been a lie. Because as soon as I saw her shining eyes and upturned lips, as soon as her mouth twisted over its name, I knew I could never love another colour again.)
Perhaps it was just as well that I loved yellow, because from then on, it was everywhere.
Our fingers tangled over the bowl, stained with the bright orange of artificial cheese. Crushed lemons, the acid stinging old paper cuts, the juice cool on our lips. Long evenings in an old bookstore, surrounded by aging books, and yellowed paper. The deep gold of a delicate bracelet, the light tan of the wrist on which it was draped.
That summer, I would go back to the sea where I was born, and I would think of that bracelet and those fingers and those lips, I’d write sonnets in the hot ochre sands, and sing every love song I'd ever heard, and then I'd sit on the beach and watch the golden sunset, and I'd think of her, and me, and us.
But my stomach would twist whenever anyone came too close -- I didn’t want anyone to know, and I was glad when the waves would silt over my words, when the whale songs would drown out my voice.
I was also miserable.
In some ways, I am much like the colour I fell in love with. We are both so full of contradictions.
You see, the sun climbs, and the sun falls, but both are equally golden.
The beginning of an era, and the end.
A job transfer. A moving truck. A bright yellow cab. The summer sun baking our scalps.
We hugged for the last time. Her eyes were shiny, but no tears fell. I'm grateful for that. If she cried, I would have too, and then I wouldn't be able to stop.
I don't remember much after that, only that a few hours later, a plane flew overhead, and I knew she was gone.
don't ask me how the narrator knew that it was the same plane, i'm a writer, and therefore, am not constrained by the rules of logic. (also, i spent like half an hour searching for an airline whose colours include yellow, and i found one: spirit.)
title from coldplay's yellow, which i listened to on repeat while writing this.