My grandmother asks me to join her for a walk and my heart drops at the implication, she sees through all of the masks I wear.
I'm unable to force a smile in the face of uncertainty and fear and still, I nod my approval. How could I ever say no to a soul as pure as hers?
The streets are empty in this quiet town, but the spring blossoms are a storm swirling and the petals make it seem a little less lonely for now.
The scratch and scrape of our boots on pavement, on streets missing sidewalks, fills the silence until she decides which words she'd like to speak.
My grandmother has eyes that are soft as periwinkle, where my mother's are more electric blue. Mine are a mix, a collision of softness and sharp edges. I am generations in the making.
She takes her time, plucks a flower from a low hanging tree and tucks it into my rich reddish brown hair, always patient, always the last of the flowers to bloom in spring and never less beautiful than the ones who hurried.
When she tells me in a grief-stricken whisper that she knows exactly what I'm going through and I don't want to believe her.
I want to remember my grandfather as the hero I thought he was, but maybe there comes a time in life when we must read between the lines, when we must realize that not all fairytales end as happy ones. That not all loves are meant to last and not all lovers are as faithful as the unwavering sun.
There is a knot that forms in my throat, made of tears I try to swallow down unsuccessfully. How could he tear the wings off a butterfly and think it to be easy?
The mess I am is a stark disparity to the calm assurance of my grandmother. She has taken time to heal. And she reminds me that I will find power in doing the same.
She tells me that there may not be plenty of fish in the sea, knowing I'd never believe her claim anyways. She says that there is still a kaleidoscope of colours to choose from in this life and that the firecracker red of love is only one of them.
I am told of the women who were warriors before me, who battled without hesitation and earned the title of brave. She says that she sees the potential in me to be the same.
The wind moves through the trees and whistles a tune, brushes against my porcelain skin and I feel its resilience then. I close my eyes to stop the tears from falling, decide I'd like to be as fearless as the ones who came before me. If I am an ocean, I am not the saddest blue, I am sapphire shining and the glow of sunlight dancing on its surface.
If I am to choose from life's kaleidoscope of colours then I want to hold them all. I want to gather up the rainbow and lie beneath the emerald leaves long after spring and into summer. I want to taste the sky's ancient sunshine, feel the dark soil of towering mountains beneath my feet, and marvel at the caress of unrelenting rain.
I will find my way again, with or without you at my side, just as my grandmother did before me. She says I am proof that the wild in our bloodline survived.
My grandmother and I sit upon her well-manicured lawn, on a soft knitted blanket and wonder at how we will never get these seconds back, and at the way that we can still enjoy each one.
She weaves me a crown of periwinkle and tells me that they were once considered to be flowers of death. I worry when she places it gently atop my head, but then she makes one for herself too, reminds me that death is occasionally the ending of pain, not the loss of a life but rather the start of a better, greater one.
And I still have so many versions of myself left to uncover. I still have a lifetime to discover all of the world's most breathtaking colours. Ones that I'm longing desperately to see and all of the ones that both my grandmother and I had never thought to dream of.
About the Creator
Shelby Caudle
Shelby | Zombear
Poet, Artist, Small Business Owner
My Book: To Walk On Moonbeams
Ontario, Canada
Visit my website: www.zombearwrites.com
Instagram: @zombearwrites
Facebook: www.Facebook.com/ZombearWrites

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