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“What color is my voice?” Cromwell stared at me, eyes full of some kind of light I couldn’t decipher. That small, beautiful smile pulled on his lips again, and he said, “Violet blue.”
“Cromwell?” I asked, and he turned my way. “What’s your favorite? Your favorite color to see?” “Violet blue,” he said in an instant.
“I want to play because of you.” “Me?” I got on my knees, on the floor, my eyes level with hers. I cupped her face and felt my lip hook up. “Because you, with your questions and tenacity, made damn sure that I faced some shit I didn’t want to face. You pushed and pushed until I couldn’t turn away from it anymore. You pushed until I found myself in here, in the practice rooms, picking up instruments I hadn’t touched in three years.”
She was my God-given gift. The girl that brought me back life.
“To be forever in love . . . and to be forever loved.” I gave a watery smile. “That is now my dream.” When the threat of death hung over you, you realized that your true dreams weren’t so grand. And they all came down to one thing—love. Material possessions and idealistic goals faded away like a dying star. Love was what remained. Life’s purpose was to love.
