His favorite color was pink. Despite having been born on Halloween, swaddled in orange and weaned on pumpkin, he had a thing for pink. All shades of it-- baby pink, bubble gum pink, cherry blossom, cosmos, quince, cone flower, magenta, mauve, watermelon, sunset skies in winter-- he loved them all. These shades showed up everywhere, in his school notebooks, in patches on his jean jacket, in his polo shirts, in bandanas wrapped around his wrist, in his Converse tennis shoes, and even in his hair.

On the day that he crossed over, the velvet curtains parted and fluttered in the breeze. Salty tears spilled on the hardwood floor. I planted rose geraniums and Sarah Berhnardt peonies. After the memorial service, I watered his grave with hibiscus tea and rose water. I wrapped my grief in a pink silk scarf and buried it along with his boyhood treasures, nestled in the roots of the Yoshino cherry tree.

A couple of months later, in the sweetness of an early summer evening, I was sitting on the porch as night fell. Lightening bugs were abundant that year, the gardn aglow with hundreds of them. Out of nowhere, a pink flash caught my eye. It came closer and closer. A pink-bottomed lightening bug landed on my hand, wrapping me in fluorescent light. She then disappeared into the night.

Stargazer lilies sang me a lullaby, and I drifted off on a pillow of rose petals, sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep. The sky was on fire when I awoke, cotton candy clouds hovering above the trees.

Pink is the color of innocence. Pink is the color of rebirth. Pink is the color of hope.

For Ryan: 10/31/89-04/28/2008.

These photos are from a new project that I started recently, which is entitled, “The Color of Memory.”

Thanks for your visit.

Until next time…

Anne