All the Colors in a Year

2020 was colorful. It was the year of pain, of growth, of loss, of rebuilding. I did not know, when I packed away the Christmas ornaments, that I was also packing away the life I had built with you. The greens and reds lingered after the holiday, a stubborn reminder of what once was. Pine needles stuck to the carpet, and the garland draped limply over the banister, as if it, too, was weary. The red of the stockings, once filled with love and excitement, now felt hollow, a whisper of the past. I packed them all away, my hands slow and deliberate, knowing this was not just the end of Christmas but the beginning of the end of us.

January came, and with it, gold. It shone in the crisp winter sunlight, gleaming in the frost on my windowpane. It filled me with a strange warmth as I stepped into a new year, alone but not broken. I found strength in the decision to leave, in the knowledge that I had reclaimed my future. Gold was in the morning coffee I sipped as I stared out at the bare trees, in the flickering candlelight that accompanied my quiet nights. Gold was in my spine as I stood taller, unafraid of what lay ahead.

February was cold, void of the warmth that love once brought. The absence of red was sharp, cutting. No roses, no hearts, no cards scrawled with childish handwriting from our boys — because you had told them not to. "There is no love in this house anymore," you had said, and so, love fled. I grieved not for you, but for the pieces of innocence you stole from our children, for the love that should have been theirs to give freely.

March brought green again. The vibrant green of St. Patrick’s Day decorations our boys taped to the walls, the fresh green of new life pushing up through the thawing soil. Like me, the garden began to awaken, stretching towards the light, seeking warmth. My hands, buried in the dirt, felt grounded, steady. The green shoots held promises — of something new, of something better.

April was yellow. Sunlight stretched long and golden over our new home. I moved in with the boys, our laughter ringing through rooms still echoing with emptiness. We filled the space with warmth, with backyard games and late-night stories. Yellow was in the daffodils that lined the driveway, in the lemon cake we baked to celebrate new beginnings. It was in the way my heart felt light, unburdened. It was fresh paint in the hallways, a color you never let me use in our previous life because it was too cheery and childlike.

May, June, July, and August were blue, a blur of water and sky. The world had shut down, but we had each other. We spent endless afternoons floating in pools, wading into lakes, letting the water hold us as we rebuilt what family meant. We tracked through creeks, and laid on the shore, feeling the sun, with nowhere else we had to be. The sky stretched, impossibly blue, above us, reminding me that the world was still vast, still full of possibilities. The boys' laughter echoed over the waves, and for the first time in years, I laughed too — deep, real, unguarded.

September was blue and gold. A new job, a new identity. I stepped into leadership, both in my career and at home. I bought new clothes, professional and polished, pieces that fit the version of me I was stepping into. Gold shone in the confidence that grew with each passing day, in the way my voice carried when I spoke to my staff. I was leading now, not just surviving. With a new school year came some sports and activities again, and the boys relished in the opportunity for schools spirit, with masks to match as they embarked on a new look for education.

October was orange. The leaves turned, vibrant and brilliant, before they let go. I followed their lead. I released the anger I had clung to, the resentment that had tangled itself into my ribs. I let it fall away, watched it drift like leaves in the wind, landing in soft piles to be gathered and forgotten. As the oak tree is the last to shed its leaves, I too stayed strong, holding on to the important pieces, as the others drifted away. The air turned crisp, cool, but inside, I felt warm, whole.

November was brown, earthy and grounding. It was in the meal we shared, the four of us around a table set for our new family. There was no grand feast, no extravagant celebration, but there was peace. Brown was the warmth of the turkey, the soft rolls we passed between us, the wood of the table where our hands rested. It was a color of stability, of knowing that for the first time in a long time, we were exactly where we needed to be. It was the pumpkin pie we pulled off without a recipe.

And then December — December was everything. It was reds, greens, blues, yellows, golds, oranges, browns. It was the burst of color I had long been denied. You had hated the multicolored lights, but now they gleamed from every corner of my home. I draped them over the tree, around the doorframes, across the mantle. My house glowed in defiance, in celebration. I wrapped myself in the hues of the life I had reclaimed.

Now, as the year closes, I take these colors — these memories — and I stitch them together. A quilt of the past twelve months, a tapestry of pain and triumph, of endings and beginnings. The red of heartbreak, the gold of strength, the green of renewal, the yellow of freedom, the blue of healing, the orange of release, the brown of gratitude, and the rainbow of joy. One cannot cling to one color, as they cannot cling to one emotion. It is all the colors together which make them meaningful and magic.

As I pull the finished quilt around my shoulders, I feel its weight, its warmth. It is not just fabric; it is a story. It is my story. And wrapped in its embrace, I am ready for whatever the next year brings.