A short fiction piece based on the prompt, "___ is the color of the world. It's in everything," and fill in the blank with the name of a paint color.
Kissable is the color of the world. Nearly seventy years ago, a solar flare lit up the galaxy, blinding our eyes until kissable was the only color in the spectrum. Our scientists call it The Sun Kiss. I’m told the name derives from the term pink (the color of a woman’s painted lips), but I’ve never known another color to compare it to.
I turn my head to the blooming tree swaying out back. Usually, the sound of the wind goes unnoticed, but today it’s all I hear. We’re expected to stay inside at least two days a week to protect our eyes from further sun-damage. Whoever decided that must’ve been a shut-in, I think, because I’m about this close to banging my head against the wall.
I rise from where I lie on the carpet and make my way to our basement.
The thrumming of a sander welcomes me as I descend our ridiculously steep stairs.
“Hey, Dad?” I call.
He doesn’t hear me, so I call again.
“Yeah?” he says, turning off the instrument.
“What’re the chances you’ll let me see Papa?” I ask.
“Hmm,” Dad says, “one sixty-eighth of a chance?”
He chuckles when I stick my tongue out.
“I don’t have a problem with it,” he says, “as long as you wear your glasses.”
“Okay!” I say. I turn to leave, but remember to hug him before I do. “Love you.”
He kisses my forehead, his stubble tickling the skin beneath my bangs.
“Love you too, kiddo,” he replies.
***
Papa’s house is orderly since he cleans from day to day, though it’s not as spotless as Mom keeps ours. I close the door behind me before taking off my shades. Every citizen is expected to wear them during the day when the sun’s sudden flares are most likely to strike––at least, that’s what Professor Jay-Davies says.
“Papa!” I call. “It’s me.”
“Me who?” he asks.
I follow his voice to the dining room in the back of the house, where he has set up an old puzzle set. Usually, Papa would be outside walking or gardening; today must be his confinement, too.
“Me, Leia,” I say. “As in L-e-i-a?”
“So good to see you, L-e-i-a,” he teases and kisses my hand. “What can I do for you?”
I shrug.
He seems to understand because he says, “Go in the kitchen and pick out some snacks. Then you can help me with this puzzle.”
“All right,” I say.
I return a few minutes later and set our sustenance on the table. I observe the corner of the puzzle he’s already managed to complete. Its various shades of kissable let me know which pieces are most likely to match, but I’m sure this must’ve been easier to do when he was young.
Turning a piece to see if it will fit, I say, “How long have you had––”
“This puzzle?” he says.
I nod.
“Hmm,” he says, “I think I got it when I was eight. So, it’s about seventy-seven years old?”
“What’d it look like?” I ask to fill the silence. “With color?”
He gives up on the piece he’s working on. As he searches for a new one, he says, “Oh, it had so many––almost every color of the rainbow.” He points to the picture on the box. “Green, blue, red, orange––the color of sunsets––brown, pink, white, and probably others I’m not remembering.”
I wait for him to take a drink before I ask, “What was your favorite color?”
“I loved green,” he says. “I still do, but it’s getting hard to tell if I just love the memory of it––what a beautiful memory it is!––or if I still love the color itself. It’s been so long since I saw it last.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes before I say, “I’ve been thinking, who’s going to remember them when you’re gone?”
“Well,” he says, “I guess that’s your job.”
“But I’ve never seen color before,” I say.
“No,” he agrees, placing down another piece, “but when you do see them––and you will—you can imagine them and remember their names. Nothing’s permanent, Leia, and I doubt this will be, either. Though I won’t live to see it.”
“D-don’t say that!” I stammer. Papa makes me so uncomfortable when he jokes about death. He’s been doing it so much lately.
“Sorry,” he says, smiling. “Just stating the facts.”
Several hours pass and I need to return to home for dinner.
“Leia,” Papa says as I lace up my shoes.
“Yeah?” I say, rising to face him.
We’re nearly the same height now.
“Remember what I said,” he tells me. His face is stern, but loving.
I know what he means.
“I will,” I promise.
I will always remember.
תגובות