Day One

I am painting a room pink.  Pink.  Pink.  Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a “pink person”.  The rest of my house is terra cotta, moss, rust, mocha…serious, sensible colors.  Why pink?  Pink was the color of my Mother’s apartment.  My Mother who died six months ago.  I am painting the room where I will display her things.  I am painstakingly recreating every detail…perhaps in the hopes it will bring her back.  Every detail.  Even the pink.

Pink.  Silly pink.  What in the world is really pink anyway?  Bazooka bubble gum?  Pepto Bismol?  Barbie’s camper?  No, pink is the color of silly fantasy things…Pegasus wings, Cupid cheeks, a heart scribbled by a child.  This color can’t possibly expect me to take it seriously!  As I open the can and dip in my brush, I feel an uneasiness.  What is it about this color that bothers me?  It is too carefree.  It is too eternally happy.  It has no meaning, no substance.  As I put my brush to the wall I am almost resentful.  I decide I can’t face pink today, and put my brush away.
Day Two

I reopen the can.  I have been thinking about pink all day.  It has me perplexed.  I need to figure it out.  Anyway, painting is meditative for me.  I am a good painter because of my parents.  My Father was a painter and taught me how to hold a brush.  My Mother was a Montessori teacher and taught me to be thoughtful and deliberate in my actions.  I love to work with my hands.  I don’t need blue tape.

My Mother had cancer but she didn’t die from it.  One day her heart just stopped.  The truth is, the angels just couldn’t stand being away from her any longer, and they came and scooped her up.  She had pink pajamas and pink slippers.  She had a sparkly pink headband that she wore around her bald head.  What was it about pink that made her so happy?  I needed to know.  I needed to understand.  I started to paint.
Day Three

I am starting to figure pink out.  Pink doesn’t care.  It doesn’t answer to anyone.  It is what it is.  How can it be so daring?  Because it is what it is, out of  love.  Pink doesn’t hurt anyone.  Pink smiles and gives, smiles and gives.  Pink purposely ignores politics and war.  Pink doesn’t allow fear inside its cheerful envelope.  Pink knows there are problems in the world, but lets someone else worry about them.  Pink prefers to laugh rather than feel sorry for itself.  Pink shines.

As my hand sweeps rhythmically across the wall I am reminded of my Mother rocking me on the porch swing when it rained.  I love rain because of my Mother.  I remember how giving she was.  I remember how steadfastly positive and cheerful she was, so that my siblings and I would never worry.  Pink is that way.  It provides a respite for people who need one, from whatever they need it from.  Pink doesn’t judge.  Like the Pied Piper, it sings, dances, and says “Follow me!” to anyone who will listen.  Pink is happy.  I am almost finished painting.
Day Four

I’ll miss pink.  I’ll miss our conversations, our debates.  I’ll miss the way it challenges me, even though I’d never admit it out loud.  I can’t believe I have a pink room.  Yet then again, I can.  My Mother taught me to keep an open mind, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, to remember that you can learn something from everyone…even pink.  Pink has taught me to let go, laughing.

Pink is the color of happiness, of personal freedom.  Pink is the unapologetic color of love.  My Mother’s color.  And yes, pink is the color of a heart scribbled by a child…a child whose soul is still open, before they learn to censor their emotions for the comfort of others.  Before they learn that you’re not supposed to sing in public.  Or dance in the rain.  And pink is the color that silly old ladies paint their apartments…because they realize you should never wait another minute to sing in public.  Or dance in the rain.

My Mother’s license plate read “LUVUALL”.  I’m not quite yet able to face wearing my heart on my sleeve that openly.  But I can face pink.  I clean my brush, grateful.