What is Pink?

There is pink, and then there is Pink.

Pink is the color of the wind when the sun sets on the French Riviera and the sky blushes softly at first, and then furiously. You have never seen Pink like this. Not when the all the world is drenched in its light, and the buildings bathe in it.

You cannot know this kind of Pink without having climbed to the Chateau de Nice first, to watch the sky burn. The cool evening air will soon dry the perspiration on your brow, and you will catch your breath after only a little while. No doubt Pink exists in many other forms, but I am not speaking of those pinks. I speak of this one, the Pink of the Bournes', that soft camellia flush.

There is a bottle of rosé in the fridge That, too, is Pink.

What is Violet?

As the sun sets in the West and color is leached from the sky and the Earth, look out across the lake. It is the darkness deep in the heart of the water. It is the mystery held beneath the glassy surface. What light is left is dying, and the skies turn velvety. It's the transitional dusk, between sunset and night, warmth and coolness.

It's the color of sleep. Not a midday nap, but heavy, restful slumber. The stillness that takes over bodies in repose, freezing king and pauper alike. When we lie awake for hours, it's the shadows under our eyes- what sleep we were deprived of is painted upon our faces like rouge. A reminder, of the rest we cannot escape.

It's a flower. A flower that blankets the graves of children. The heart shaped petals see them off in their journey, their eternal slumber. How innocent, how sweet. 

Soft, whispery silks, trailing like smoke and falling like water. It's the feel of them caressing sunburned skin. That cooling kiss, as a mother's hand on a feverish brow. It's the bittersweet goodbye murmured against pillows that let you murmur. 

It is something unshakable, eternal. It is neither sad nor glad, neither dead nor alive. It's a haven between two stops. Something that isn't exactly asleep, but will never wake. Violet, the last color in the rainbow, is that which fades before darkness. 

Violet is rest.

What is Yellow?

It's the little bit left in the glass after it's been drained. Whisky, cognac, gin, the stuff that burns away feeling. What warms as it kills.

Its the lace you find in your grandmother's chest she's kept to hold memories of her youth, all moth eaten and stained by the years. Beside it are the love letters sent by the man she loved before your grandfather. They're all tied up in a neat package, carefully hidden from view. He's not important now, but she loved him once, in another life that plays behind her closed eyes with the static of old television sets.

It's the dress the color of sunshine you used to wear to school, you're hair all trussed up into a schoolgirl's braids. It's tucked away somewhere, still bright as brass.

It's the goldfish you won at the fair. How its scales caught the lamplight as it wriggled about in the bowl. That fish faded into insignificance, and no one really remembers when or how it died, but its gone now.

It's the dust motes swirling and jiving in the late afternoon sunlight. When the air is sticky and the roads lazy and red. When dogs lay down to wait for cooler weather, not even bothering to bark and strangers driving by their porches.

It's the funny notes in people voices when they sang, a hundred years ago. It's curiously missing in the music of today, but maybe it is only because not enough time has passed. Like fine wine, the timber hasn't matured to dusky warmth. Perhaps our children's children will hear the songs of our youth and understand us.

When a bouquet of roses wither and droop, it's the hue of what used to be white and pink and speckled with dew. It's the stories told by those waiting for immortality, the touch of fingers roughened with care. They are gentle enough when they pluck photographs from worn albums to present to you, proud as they are of how life used to be, how they survived.

Yellow hurts. It's a peculiar pain that brings happiness in remembering.

What is Gray?

When two people fight, it's the air between them when they're done. It's the awkwardness in the way they can't look at each other, the stiffness in their stubborn, stubborn shoulders. Hours later, when they still haven't forgotten, it's the words that were said to hide how much other words hurt.

It's not the sky when it rains; it's the clouds as they come from chimneys and steel-plated monstrosities, hiding the rain as they spread across blue.

In the cemetery, it isn't the unadorned stone, but the one wreathed in flowers and not people. Be they roses or tulips or mayflowers, be they white or black or crimson. It's not when people's faces are stained with tears, but when children play and their parents yawn discreetly into their palms. It's when there is no grief, when the dead are carted away with relief.

When the sea is the color of steel, that is not it. It's when barks cross and break apart, spilling the poison men keep in their pockets into the waves. As the porpoises scream, and the sharks fear, and the whales weep, Njord mourns how his home fades. He is the God of the seas, and even he cannot fight so hard, for so long. It's the helplessness that churns in his heart.

When a baby has the eyes of a crone, it is the color of her cheeks.

It follows despair. It is accepting, resigned. It's not the burst of emotion, but the emptiness after.

It's the smoke after the fire has burnt out, the ashes when the embers are spent.

That is what Gray is.