The Color Purple

I returned home last night in the dark, my feet, numb from tidewater five hours and millennia old catching me off guard, gliding me though the quiet street from campus to my house. The quiet in my head and bones was part of a weariness that was neither unnatural nor unwelcome. It felt like ten o’clock but was only five-thirty. I ate leftovers. Rice, tuna, seaweed, the remaining two bites of spanish rice and refried beans from my lunch. Peace asked for a reprieve from internet research and a word document, bright screens. I pulled The Color Purple from my bookshelf and read and read. The fraternity vibrated the street and my roommate laughed, inebriated, with her friend. I read and read. Ate the words with a spoon, my eyes, my fingers, to speed them inside me. I awoke late with a headache, eyes tired from little sleep. Read to the last page. Wonder if part of my soul is purple. Can’t pick a favorite color from the rainbow but wonder if we all have a little purple in us. If we all are a mixture of primaries.


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