Everyone grows up through a color,
A color that is a looking glass into their childhood.
My color is red.
Red is the color that appears in all of my earliest memories,
The color that weaves throughout my past.
I see it in the little red ball that I found in the field across the street from my house.
The one that my dad and I would play catch with on long summer days.
The one that bounced just enough, even with the deep crack that ran along it like a scar.
I see it in the small, rectangular red book of Aesop’s tales that intrigued me so much,
Even as a little girl.
The one that my dad would read parts of to me every night before bedtime.
The one that made me say, “I don’t get it” after each story, but kept me begging for more.
I see it in the old red wagon that holds all of our old toys and stays parked in our garage.
The one that my sister and I would sit in while our parents would pull us around our neighborhood.
These are the memories that will never leave me,
And the color red flows through them like a river.
Red is my color.