it’s the first colour you see when entering life before you open your eyes for the first time. you were entrapped in your mother’s body, yet she was the one to give you life. it’s the medical gloves. they grasp your legs and pull your body into the world because you were breach. it’s the marrow in your collar bone that had to be broken in order for you to survive and not suffocate in the prison of your mother’s body. it’s the colour your mother sees because her vision is blurred with hopeful tears when the doctor have to clear your airways. make a note to yourself that the doctors started worrying when you didn’t enter our atmosphere wailing. your parents’ hearts were beating faster than they were built for, and if they keep this up, you might not be the only one sleeping in a hospital bed; and it’s the colour of the sheets. it’s the carbon dioxide leaving mummy and daddy’s body in the form of a relieved sigh once you started to cry because it was cold that night.
fast forward to your ninth birthday, it’s the whipped icing holding the colorful sprinkles on your cake. after the happy birthday song, it’s the bow helping your present to look decorative, but it’s also the band-aid turning the blood dripping from your finger due to your first paper cut into a neatly clotted slice. maybe next year your dad can work on his wrapping job.
you surge through 9 years of your life until you’re finally 18. now it’s the certificate you receive while walking across your high school stage, wrapped tightly in a red satin ribbon, tied in a hopeful bow.
peek again three years later, and it’s your 21st birthday. you walk triumphantly into the bar on fifth avenue for the first time. this would be the place where you met your first and last love. it’s the sun dress wrapped gracefully around her naturally-tanned body. five years plus a few dates and it’s the two matching wedding bands on your fingers. you’re congratulated by friends and family, but you decide to officially celebrate by returning to the bar on fifth. it’s the neon welcome sign. it greets you, and begs you to enter and share a drink with your new wife. your heart is beating out of your chest and butterflies are set free in your stomach every time she smiles. as she dances, it’s the same sun dress draped on her body. your blood-alcohol level is four times higher than the legal limit, but you never think to call a taxi cab.
it is no longer the sun dress she married you in because it is now being devoured by thick, red blood. it’s the lights of the truck you slammed into. it’s not the skid marks on the road, but the smoke you can’t see through. sirens stop blasting once the ambulance finally reaches the hospital, and it’s the bare walls of her frigid ICU room. you’ve been saving the hopeful red ribbon for a rainy day, today is that day. you fall on your knees, praying to whatever god would listen. the monitor attached to her body beeps at a steady rate until the tune turns constant. now it’s the background on the clock that tells you her time of death, and it’s the thick bag that transports her limp, lifeless body to the morgue for autopsy. drinkers don’t get to say goodbye. it’s the five broken ribs that shattered during the car crash.
many melancholy weeks pass and it’s the colour of her skin at the funeral you weren’t invited to. after the somewhat-heart-warming obituary, it’s the flower petals that your dad had to sprinkle over her casket because she always thought red roses were overrated like an overplayed song.
you’ve lost yourself to a three-year spiral downward. you’re only 29 years old and it’s the colour of the pills you use to numb the thought of her existence from your guilty conscience.
have you ever wondered why you only wake up when you don’t want to? the pill-popping habit continues for another twenty years because seven therapists and 140 sessions couldn’t help you erase her from your mind, body, and soul. you’re 49 years old now and the colour of your hair is nearly the same as the dress of your first and last love. you’re stricken with the fact that you have to live without the girl of your dreams. it’s the last colour you see when ending your own life. you did not leave this world wailing.