Hiding Within My Colors

A Mother's Day short story of a daughter's discovery and acceptance.



I stand by her door and let my eyes slowly move around the soft window curtains that used to be white. They now hang tired and wrinkled. I watch her lie on a bed of fiery red poppies surrounded by the lavender walls of her bedroom. These are two of three of her favorite colors, the third being pink and ones that would make me cringe and arouse wretched feelings within me for years.

To define the meaning of oxymoron is to define my mother. She can be swift and cruel with words but overwhelmingly protective of us during our times of need and want. She can be the North wind pulling me South, all sweet but followed by a cupful of tartness. She is all the words that can clash when put together. Her whole being screamed to be noticed while mine begged to assimilate with the ordinary.

Life was unkind to her at the beginning and some of the bitterness and regret, she has kept with her, all through her eighty-six years. I think she believed that if she totally let go of the hurt, it would be like chipping off a big part of her and thus leave her empty and barren with no stories to tell and reminisce about.

Early on I knew, albeit not fully consciously, that I did not want to be enveloped in the shadow of her feistiness and at times misguided impulsiveness. Any shade of red, lavender or pink would fill me with dread, and so, running off to the farthest place imaginable became my only option. I felt that to enshroud myself in any of these colors would turn me into the one being that I refused to be, my mother.

On through my twenties, I sought refuge in the unruffled hues of blues and greens. I would be the quiet and shy one in any gathering. Just listening and observing. Unlike her, I would prefer to be in the company of one true friend rather than a lot.

Then the most obvious things in life happens, I kiss a few frogs and am gifted with two precious jewels along the way before I finally fall for the one prince who was not an iota like her. I found my strength and soundness in him. There was now logic in me when before there was none. He blew where I blew and we drifted in tandem. At last there was a rhythm in my sometimes erratic existence.

I am halfway thru my life at this point and bit by tiny bit and with much caution, I have finally welcomed red and pink and allowed them to walk into my more collected self. I have no regrets for being what I was and what I am. I am now ready to embrace that part of my person who I know is still a shadow of my mommy.

Now as I watch her curled up in a peaceful sleep, her breathing soft and rhythmic, I notice and appreciate how vibrant and beautiful the red poppies are. I do a slow walk quietly towards the bathroom mirror, I observe my reflection and then look back at my mother and know that the time has come and that I can finally say to myself, " I do look good in pink." -----e.e.g.