Battle-red.

Cotton-white.

Clay.

Grove-green, forest-green, plum-purple.

The color of peaches and of mangoes and of plums before and after they become prunes.

Of eggplants: both outside and in, flesh -- and bone. Of eggplants.

Dawn-clear.

Frenzy-gold and frenzy-cold.

The balsamic glaze.

The red of strawberries in summer.

The fluffiness of white and cream.

The cold of black marble.

He is the plum, the fruits on the trees and crawling along the ground. He is the rough translucent, milky-white prickles on the trailing, crawling vine. He is the sharp deep leaves on the holly bush -- the thorns -- and the bright red of its berries -- the blood.

Milk and red and berries and green and the taste of pine in your throat.

The taste of Christmas and the forest.

The taste of springtime in the bud.

The taste of strawberries and cream.

The exultation of blue and a champagne-shimmer at high dawn.

And high noon.

The creaminess of egg yolks, in both color and texture. The hope and sturdiness of breakfast -- and of second breakfast. The comforting ordinary brown crunchableness of toast.

The comfort of a white comforter when the morning sun shines on it, and on the white crisp-pillow next to your head and under your head.

The smell of your roommate's perfume and the black of her dress that has no shoulders.

The sweetness of the breeze in springtime and the bite and finger-snap and crick and crunch of the air in winter -- a crunch like the Nestle Crunch bar (insert registered trademark symbol here).

The bright pink of Elle Woods's trial dress.

The navy of a little boy's nautical bedroom. The rough blues that were on my brother's comforter when we were kids and mine was "blush and bashful" pink.

The sweaty puppy dog smell that my 21-year-old brother has never seemed to shake.

The sharp and the silvertine taste of the knife my other brother carried down a flight of stairs, point-up, when he was a year old because this child is cray.

The tang of raspberries, and their deep pink.

The Pepto-Bismol pink of my email background.

The burgundy and burn of cough medicine.

And the pale blonde of wooden floors.

The dust mites floating in the air in the sunbeam are magical, and the dandelions are His sign: that He is here, and He has come to make all the sad things untrue.

 

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