Purple, the color of New Mexico hills at sunset, of developing
bruises, of Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes.
Purple highlights in a glass of Pinot Noir, shared at
twilight by a field of lavender.
Purple, the color I was never allowed to paint my bedroom,
and a clothes color so outrageous that they didn’t even make mens' shirts in
it. Now it’s the color of four shirts, two jackets and multiple ties.
Purple prose, purple toes, and a Purple People Eater story
that used to get the kids from Chicago half way to Fort Wayne.
Purple, the color of prayer ascending to heaven in a cloud
of incense, and the color light waves turn just before they reach frequencies
the eyes cannot see.
It’s a chameleon sort of color: sometimes cool, mysterious,
calming; sometimes loud, vibrant, even violent. For me, purple always has a
smell…of grapes long pressed, the cool morning mists in the lavender fields of
Provence, and the bright artificial smell of grape Nehi, spilled at a family BBQ
in Grandma’s back yard.
Purple takes me places I like to go.
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