When my father paints over the bubblegum pink bedroom walls of my childhood bedroom I have to look away. It’s as if we are burying a living thing, ignoring the rise and fall of a heaving chest, hiding a fresh corpse from eager scavengers. I think of everything that shade of pink has seen. Wild cousin laughter and fumbled guitar chords and futile first attempts at love poetry. Bad boyfriends and pretty good ones and ghosts of a younger body hunched over a sticky-keyed typewriter. That shade of pink knows me more than I do, has witnessed every slip into madness and every rare moment of peace. But there’s a flickering like grace even in the undoing. There’s an air of calm in the deconstruction of a past that no longer flatters a frame like mine.
I buried a friend today.
I loved her but it was time.