I sleep with my window shades only partially closed. I want that first peak at the day as I open my eyes. I crave that instant shot of beauty.
My mother has told me a half-dozen times already how much she likes my "color scheme." My counter-top appliances are red. My kitchen walls are yellow. The afghan her sister crocheted sits on the back of my sofa, each square a blast of color that's echoed in my living room rug.
Today at the doctor's office, her eyes opened wide when the nurse gave her a rose pink paper gown to put on for her EKG. "Things used to be so drab," my mother said. "Not like this."
I savor the red wine in the crystal glass. The way the sun shines through my orange patio umbrella nearly setting it afire. The contrast of the melon in the green glass bowl.
"Oooh, gorgeous," my mother said when I showed her the plumeria cuttings the man who loves me sent from his sister's trees. "They're blooming," she said.
Things used to be so drab. Not like this.
