Monday's Not Coming

by Tiffany D. Jackson

If Mrs. Charles were a color, she’d be yellow—bright, cheerful, golden rays of sunshine. A ripe banana, a fresh highlighter, sweet like pineapples, tart like lemons, you could lose her in a field of dandelions. One drop of her coloring could turn plain buttercream frosting into the sweetest Easter cake. But one drop of another color could spoil her brightness. Leave her out in the heat too long and her banana peel would start to rot. The tip of her highlighter blackens with wear. The prickling of her pineapple skin sometimes leaves her impossible to open. And dandelions are nothing but pretty weeds.

I mean, kids bruise. We roughhouse, we jump, we run, we fall, and then we bruise. Sometimes we even scar. So if I did see a bruise or a cut, it meant nothing. Just another star in the sky.

But when she is not gold, when her insides are hollowed to the point where there is nothing left, she can turn your skin green.

If Daddy was a color, he would be a forest green—thick, lush, calm, whispering refreshing wisdom only few could hear. If Michael was a color, he would be bark brown—cocoa, mocha, chocolate, the color of earth. Quiet, supportive, but strong. A softness that love grows from. Together, they are the tree I lean on when I’m weary. The tree I swing from. The tree of life when surrounded by death.