Colors
by Bernice Holtzman
It
was the most
beautiful day of the year, Johnny thought, as he sat playing in his backyard.
He couldn’t remember the sky ever being so blue, with white cotton-puff clouds
forming animal shapes against it. The bright yellow sun shone through the
branches of the big oak tree in the corner of the yard, turning some of the
leaves emerald and lime, while the ones in the shadows were a dark forest
green. A warm breeze was blowing, making the glistening lawn look like
rippling water, and bathing Johnny in the scent of freshly trimmed grass.
The
last time
Johnny could recall a day this perfect was the day last fall, the day of the
family road trip into the mountains. Johnny had sat in the car, face pressed
against the half-open window, the wind whipping over his head. The sky had
looked turquoise that day, with the mountains a festival of color. His father
was at the wheel, the back of his dark-haired head alert as he watched the
road; his mother was in the passenger seat beside him, and Johnny had the back
seat to himself. His mother’s cinnamon-colored hair blowing in the wind matched
the leaves on some of the trees. Every leaf he saw matched something, Johnny
thought, the orange ones the color of fire, pinks like candy roses on birthday
cakes, and red leaves matching the cars Johnny liked to count whenever he went
on long road trips. He had counted twenty red cars so far.
Some
of the
flowers in the backyard were red. There were orange-red geraniums, deep
purple-red rose bushes, and ruby-red flowers, big and exotic looking, that
Johnny didn’t know the name of. There were tulips that looked like Easter eggs,
with their perfect, oval buds colored pale pink, buttery yellow, white, and
lavender, and small purple and white striped flowers that reminded Johnny of
peppermint candy. With the green grass under him, the blue sky and white clouds
above him and the rainbow of flowers all around him, Johnny thought that every
color in the world was right here in his backyard.
Their
car
continued along the country road, swirls of autumn color whizzing past them.
Two more red cars had passed by. The road narrowed, bringing them closer to the
trees on either side of them. Johnny saw a pheasant under one of the trees, his
tiny head bobbing on his plump body, his blue, green, and gray feathers in
sharp contrast to the pink and gold leaves around him. Johnny laughed and
pointed, and his mother’s hair flew around her shoulders, her green eyes bright
and happy as she turned to look and laugh with him. Everything seemed to happen
together, in flashes of color and sound: his mother’s laughter and screams, the
car coming out of nowhere, his father’s pale hands wild on the black wheel, the
horn, loud and warped, sparkles of glass like diamonds suspended in air, red
speckles on cinnamon, red, gold, and pink hurtling toward them. Then the
purest, most brilliant white.
Johnny’s
mother
was calling him inside for dinner. Had he really been in the backyard that
long? The day was almost gone. The leaves on the big oak tree were mostly all
dark green now, and the lawn had changed from a shimmering sea to a cool, still
lake. The remaining sunlight played on his mother’s hair, weaving threads of
gold through the cinnamon. Her pretty green eyes shone with love. He remembered
those eyes crying, his father’s voice comforting, and pieces of other voices:
“…extensive damage…,” “…permanently blind…,” “…so sorry…,” “…he’s lucky to be
alive…,” then her
voice, pleading, “Are you sure, Doctor, are you sure?”
Johnny walked
toward his mother, ten steps to the rose bushes, fifteen to the geraniums,
twenty to the exotic flowers, thirty to the Easter egg tulips and peppermint
candy flowers, and ten more steps to the stairs of his back porch. Johnny
stopped at the foot of the porch and turned his face to the sun setting in the
sky. The white clouds had turned to silver, and the yellow sun was now a red
ball at the bottom of huge splashes of blazing pink, bright purple, and royal
blue. Johnny smiled. It was the most wonderful sunset ever.
Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence
in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she
can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow
Mama.
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