Red

Red was the color of church at it's most lavish and warm. Christmas drapery, vestments, poinsettias, infused with incense and sounding of carols and bells. Cranberry red tree ornaments, glassy distorted reflections that mirrored my curiosity. Festive color, scarlet ribbons and cherry flavored bubble lights.

My sister-in-law's bridesmaids in dark red velvet dresses for her November wedding. At eight, I thought this wonderful beyond belief.

Red is maple in autumn, berries and redwing blackbirds. Rolling through piles of brilliant leaves in the Irish Hills, a universe in crimson and orange crunchiness.

Red is blood, stark and vital beauty, dangerous and intense. Spurts to send a clamp to stop, the line of tiny rubies marking the flow. Red the saturation of nature, the human body in surgery.

Red was Gigi's ball, my aunt's fat black poodle who loved her ball, food, Aunt Alma and me, in that order. Spiturated rubber, I threw it endlessly as she chased it until both girl and dog were tired. Threw it down the laundry chute until she brought it back, and I would throw it down again. Red ribbons in her topknot when Aunt Alma groomed her, which lasted about an hour. Red polish on her nails.


A red wool blanket, washed and shrunken log ago. Brought out to cover me on winter nights when I had a cold. I imbued it with healing properties. We huddle under it in our dark blue terry robes. Moby kneads it then poses, jet black cat on blood red wool.