When I stood before the wall of flowers, I saw bouquets filled with deep colors of dark red and brilliant orange. I saw some with blues bright as sapphire and purples that could be woven into royal robes. The lush and grandeur was pleasing to the eyes. Their intense magnificence shouted adoration and spelled it in fireworks.
Yet, tucked behind the bold and vibrant and out of view, sat a small and delicate vase to which my heart responded: recognition. No, it had no deep violets or burgundy reds. The colors were soft. Each petal tenderly breathed the images and thoughts I could never put in to words. This bouquet, clothed in white, accented by gentle purples, explained her spirit to me. Nestled around the vase, intermingled with the flowers purple fading in to white and nearly overshadowed among the giants all around, it whispered, “It’s yellow”.
Of course! Her spirit is yellow! There were no other flowers to be picked. All others were verbose and overstated. They were expressions of passions uncontrolled and predefined beauty. Yet this… this was the gentle push from a soft breeze or a wave upon a lake as it caresses the shore. This was contained, muted, held, and with a passion that intertwined itself into the memories of tranquilly passing decades. It was the affection of the elderly couple arm in arm I drove passed as I pulled out of the parking lot.
As yellow petals reflected off of my window, and as the light changed yellow ahead and brought me to a stop, I looked down. And with an overwhelming realization, like being overcome by the waves so patient their growing strength had gone unnoticed, the silence filled with wonder, “Of course her spirit is yellow…”
“It’s my favorite color.”