Author: Isabella van Berkel

When her hands worked, idly threading and casting and stitching, the sun shone down on them. A soft yellow. 

When she would cook, spices and herbs would color my favorite curry. A brownish yellow. 

When my first birthday came around, she made me my birthday cake, the icing on it a fruity flavor. A sunny yellow. 

When she would tell me stories of the past she would smile and laugh and cry, telling me how her white clothes were so worn that they were no longer white when freedom finally came. A pastel yellow. 

When she painted, she did so patiently, carefully, mixing and mixing and mixing colors until they became hers. A mellow yellow. 

When she let me draw on her bed, where I sharpened my crayons on her white bedsheets, staining them beyond redemption, she told me she quite liked her newly dyed sheets. Crayola yellow.

When she taught me how to put on lip gloss as a child, she took off my new scarf to make sure I didn’t get any gloss on that lovely color. A canary yellow.

When she would wake up and feed the hummingbirds their sugary water, sweet and reminiscent of nectar, their little wings would flutter faster than I could see, their feathers reflecting the daylight. A golden yellow. 

When my mother was at work and I spent the afternoons at her house, she would wait on the driveway and smile at me as the brightly colored school bus dropped me off. Safety yellow.

When she taught me how to play cards until dark, the lamp above the dining table illuminated us. A flickering yellow. 

When we would spend Christmases at her house, she would laugh and blush as the champagne caught up to her, seated in that old comfortable chair. A dusty yellow.

When I saw her for the last time, she smiled brightly my way as we hugged goodbye, the comfort of a home nestling deep within my chest. A warm yellow.

When she died, the autumn sun cast a soft light all over the beautiful white flowers. A sad yellow.




This article is part of our competition with as theme “yellow”.

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