drips_frchuck

Black and White

A tale of the innocence that slowly dripped away.

I didn’t suddenly
wake up one morning to
Black and White.
The colors slowly
slipped away,
Orange juice through my fingers
as I was left with
only
the pulp.

When I colored the
grass
Purple,
they told me it couldn’t be.
When I wanted to color your
skin
Pink,
they told me it couldn’t be.

Then I fell off the balance beam
in the playground
and a bruise
blossomed
like the sunset
on my leg;
those colors
washed away,
too.

I was seven when my grandmother died;
the colors
of her quilts left
with her,
too.
It was then that I realized:
words
couldn’t be as
simple
as my colors,
either
as I watched
my mother’s rainbow of
tears
and heard the
simple
words she told me:
“I miss her so much.”

And when my grandfather died
on a
snowy day,
as I listened to the
words
of Kaddish,
I was afraid I’d
lose the
White,
too.

Share this post

Share on facebook
Share on google
Share on twitter
Share on linkedin
Share on pinterest
Share on print
Share on email

You May Also Like

Close Menu