Purple boots. Purple coat. Purple nails.
“You’re not shy, are you, Mom?”
Purple sneakers. Purple shirt. Purple jeans.
“Mother, please don’t embarrass us at school. Okay?
OKAY?”
Purple pen. Purple backpack. Purple sunglasses.
You know, purple is a royal color.
I struggle to define myself.
“Actually, Mom, purple is a PSYCHO color!”
Purple umbrella. Purple curtains. Purple couch.
When I am an old woman…
“BUT I’M NOT GOING TO WAIT UNTIL I’M OLD!!!”
They chorus in shaky harmony.
I struggle to define myself.
I struggle to separate myself
from the mundane
trivial
boring
numbing tasks I face each day.
Struggle to prevent the poems the words the energy the effervescence
from rising on the breeze and flitting away
to grace someone not as deserving
but more able to use them.
So I fight to keep from falling,
from going under.
Once.
Twice.
Last time.
And purple reminds me I am special.
I am unique.
I will not go quietly.
One day, they will understand.
When they are older,
tied down by jobs,
husbands,
children,
trivia.
And their laughter will trail off,
and maybe they will be proud of their
eccentric
weird
outstanding (as in STANDING OUT)
mother.