Chrissie Anderson Peters
There are countless purples. Mine are the purple of the polyester suit someone bought for me when I was three, the one in the professional photo that sat on the big color console TV in my grandparents’ doublewide. The purple of the crayon I used in kindergarten to color a house, only to have the teacher take it away and give me a new piece of paper and a different crayon, explaining to me that no one in Tazewell lived in a purple house, and I needed to draw the real world.
The purple of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, five pieces to a pack and ten packs to a big pack, which was not allowed in middle school but I snuck it into my duffel bag and sold it for twenty-five cents per piece so I had spending money for books. The purple of my middle school bedspread, and the curtains that mom sewed to match just because I loved the color and only partly because it was cheaper than buying the matching curtains, which weren’t available from the friend who sold her the used bedspread. The purple metallic marker that stained that bedspread in sixth grade, the purple I tried to hide from mom, who found it anyway and wouldn’t buy me another bedspread until I left for college, giving me practice learning to live with my mistakes, just the way she had, she said.
The purple of every prom dress I wanted but couldn’t afford, when Mom made me go year after year with some mediocre boy who didn’t even try to hold my imagination. The purple of our senior class colors, the color my classmates and I painted “The Rock” behind our high school on a sunshiny day, all of us posing for a picture to capture ourselves as we thought we would be forever, but never were again.
The purple of my sorority in college. The purple of puffy paint, a long-held obsession; I used to write my Greek letters on anything that wouldn’t run away from me – sweatshirts, t-shirts, and banners. The purple of one sister’s contact lenses, which captivated me at Homecoming and made me dream of one day having purple eyes that would match my purple wardrobe. The purple of my favorite suit in college, my senior year. How I cried when it would no longer fit me, because it was perfect. And then senior year was over, and the real world swallowed me, no matter what I was wearing.
The purple of the wedding dress I dreamed of wearing before I had anyone to marry, but my mother refused, “Do you know what people will say about you if you wear purple in your wedding?” and me wanting to say it didn’t matter, because I knew my own heart. The purple of my permanent eyeliner, tattooed on my upper and lower eyelids by careful hands, tattoos which caused Mamaw Little to take me aside and whisper in my ear that I was going to hell, and I hugged her tight and explained, “If for the tattooed eyelids, then probably for a lot of other things, too,” which bothered her more than the tattoos.
The purple of the roses in my wedding bouquet, which I hadn’t intended to carry because I’m not a flowery girl, but my fiancé kept telling me every bride deserves roses. He bought them for me, so beautiful, and I carried them down the aisle with joy. The purple of my hair which I’ve been wearing for years now, in my 50s, because I make my own decisions these days, like I should have been doing all along.
Reflective Writing Prompt:
Write about a color that is significant to you