Bright Yellow

Red.

The strawberries you hand-picked from your garden. I always pick the not-quite-ripe ones, but you have a sixth sense for the perfect fruit. You'd wanted to grow your own strawberries since you were a teenager and learned about all the chemicals that are put into mass-produced ones. You decide to eat just one while you wait for me. It's delicious. You've read all the books on gardening. You know all the tips and tricks. The strawberry melts in your mouth and blends perfectly with the hot summer's day.

Yellow.

The blanket you're lying on. We made it together, but neither of us was any good at quilt-making, and so the ends stick out. There's a hole down the middle from when I decided to surprise you with a fort. You smile at the memory of hearing chairs collapsing and me shouting, "I'm okay! Don't come down yet!". Eventually, we just sat on the couch.

The sun in my eyes as I drive to the park. Even with my sunglasses, it's practically blinding me.

Green.

The grass that pokes through the hole in the blanket. You can feel it scratching your lower back as you look up at the sky. The grass is a dried-out green, and it's poking you quite a lot. You almost wish you'd surprised me with a fort instead.

The caterpillar inching across your finger. You decide to call it Jerry, after our pitbull. I don't know why you have an obsession with that name. You set the caterpillar down on the grass and watch it inch away. Another one quickly replaces it on your hand.

You wonder how easy it would be to replace me. You don't think you'd be able to do it at all.

Blue.

The way you'd felt after that fight. After you'd thrown my handwritten journal into the fire. It was the only thing you knew I loved. I wanted to move. I wanted to spend a year in the city. A city like Paris, or New York, or Tokyo. You wanted to stay. You wanted to stay in the log house that we'd slaved to buy. You didn't want to leave your strawberries, or the furniture we'd built together (which was almost as bad as the blanket, but you took great pride in it). You love the mountains, the trees, and the fresh air. You are surprising me only because you want forgiveness for using my diary as kindling. You still don't want to move.

Pink.

My lips the last time I kissed you. On top of our house and underneath the sky. The stars blinked as they watched us. I was never the first one to make a move.

The first animal I'd ever held. A pig. Our first official date was to your uncle's farm. I begged you not to let him kill it. That day we both become vegetarians.

My journal. It had four hundred pages in it. I'd been using it to write since I was seven. The last thing my sister had given me before she went to serve in the military.

It's going to take more than a picnic for me to forgive you for that. I don't know if I have it in me. It's like you threw away all my memories. I'd always wanted to revisit my diary when I knew I didn't have much time left. I forget things, too. It always helps me remember. You don't know that I'm scared to forget you. I'm scared that you'll forget me.

Silver.

The stars we've watched so many nights. The stars that know all of our secrets. We painted them on one of our walls. I like to think that they watch over us. I like to think that they find us almost as fascinating as we find them.

The moon. The moon watches over us to, I guess, but it doesn't think we're fascinating. It has its own world to take care of. A world that's much bigger than ours.

The outside of the car I'm driving. The sun rains its hatred down onto its surface. I'm going to need to park in a shady area.

The ring. The ring you're not sure about. The ring that will make everything official. The ring that will let people know that we're not just friends sharing a house. The ring that you want to put on my hand and that you want to stay there. You fiddle with it, and even though the stars aren't out, they're watching you. They want you to succeed.

White.

The dresses we would wear. Gowns. Big and flowy. Bursts of light. We would run through the town, wearing those dresses. People would wonder where our husbands are. Those people don't know a thing.

The veils we would lift off of the other's face.

The chairs for the wedding guests.

The ridiculous loafers I would make you buy.

The cake.

The archway that we would stand under.

The flowers we would both hold.

The dresses we would stain.

The dresses that we would figure out how to clean.

The dresses that we would keep forever.

Your watch. It's a quarter past five. I'm late. You wonder if I'm coming. You feel a little sheepish at the ring. At the fantasy you created in your head. You stare at your watch as the seconds tick by. Most of the ice in the lemonade has melted. It'll taste more like water now.

The clouds. The clouds are too busy to care. They float away. What once was calming is kind of stressing you out. You try to make out shapes. Shapes that you'll tell me about. Once I get here. Once I get here.

Bright yellow.

How I feel when I finally find a spot in the shade to park. I hope that you haven't given up on me yet.

The color of the lemonade. There are still a few ice cubes floating at the top.

How I feel when I see the ring.