yellow-for-erica-adara-dobson

Yellow is a Coldplay song that has made me cry for as long as I can remember. It played

And Marsha, my bleach-blonde mother, would sit me down and tell me stories of her 

High school best friend that died in a raging, fiery crimson. How the song reminded her 

Of Erica, forever fifteen. 

Lemon is a happy color, or so I’ve heard

Yet one that I have always associated with sad stories 

That might not be solely yellow’s fault, though, as I tend to Snicket-ify things 

Until they are the most unfortunate version of themselves

Aureolin is sad, amethyst is sad, amaranth is sad, aqua is sad, 

I’m beginning to believe that maybe it isn’t that these colors are sad

But really it’s that my therapist is right and 

Adara is sad

Marigold, on the other hand 

Exudes radiant satisfaction, a glimmering hue 

Of perfect serenity. To me it reeks of gluttonous false confidence

Seeing as I’m unsure if I’ve ever really felt marigold in my life

Canary as a color doesn’t feel joyous to me either, if anything it’s intensely anxious

It’s one that when thought of immediately poisons my blood with liquid caution

Straightens my spine with a weighted warning, because after all 

Someone has to alert the coal miners

Xanthic feels more accurate 

When I think about such a color. That sickly sallow hue 

That edges on green, no brown, no orange maybe, no I think

Perhaps I have been staring at it for far too long than what is good for me

Sunshine, now that’s a shade worth consideration. Something about solar rays

Their ability to cradle my face between hope and forgiveness

How the warmth can surround and fill me with an effortless solace

To the point that I feel perfectly

Golden, like an early sunrise

The way I am bathed in heavenly light, even from a second floor apartment

Or from the corner of an art museum, from a painting I’ve never seen anyone else viewing

One that I’ve come back to year after year, as consistently as the sun rises

Erica is why I come back to it, I think. Jo Hopper is depicted in a cool, oily blue isolation

A perfect contrast to the sunlight she drowns in. Loneliness backhands me with every visit

Because I can see Erica there, all grown up. I never got to meet her but she sits with me

Staring out into a moment of dawn as the wife she never lived as

Marsha deserved more sunrises with Erica

I speak this to the oil-painted substitute with every visit, that she needn’t look so expectant

I’ll let my mother know you’re okay, and that you miss her too

Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her to look into the same Morning Sun, where you’ll be waiting for her.