The Joy of Rambling

Like the dress my mother sewed for me to wear at my sister’s wedding. Though the bridesmaids wore peach, I insisted on wearing my favorite color. Being the maid of honor, my wish was granted and my mom miraculously found an exact match of the same peach floral fabric, in yellow. 

Yellow, like the lemon drop that got painfully stuck when I inadvertently swallowed it the day we visited our new half-built house two towns over. I was eight. The candy sat lodged uncomfortably between my mouth and stomach as I stared at the unfamiliar landscape from the second-floor window.

Yellow like sunshine that has often been my nickname. “Hello Sunshine!” a high school boyfriend once called out. My doctor greeted me with the same, before I explained that my period was late. His demeanor changed quickly, but in the end, no issue was found. 

Yellow, like the warm brilliance that met me as I exited the clinic.

Yellow, like the bedroom in the old house I rented with five other girls after college. My mother and I picked out the buttercream fabric, and she made flowing curtains and a matching quilt. After her handiwork, my bright new room looked like a picture out of House Beautiful.

Yellow, like the long-stemmed rose my boyfriend Andy—so familiar with my preferences—delivered every week. Despite all he offered, I couldn’t see myself married to him. Instead, I chose a man who for twenty-three years brought me beautiful red roses on Valentines Day, despite my regular yellow-rose hints. At the end, I could blame it on dementia. But at the beginning? It was just one in a series of “it’s okay’s” that come with the marriage territory. 

You quickly realize, that though lovely, there are more important things in life than yellow.