by Brian Yapko
/ Poetry /
His favorite tree was the cherry, how he loved
the riot of pink fluttering blossoms in April, the
rich ruby fruit of June and the misty leaves of
October the same color as plasma dripping from
an i.v. into a blue vein. The soul that was this sweet
child’s soul was too young to figure the arithmetic
of illness and the final answer. Despite everything,
his favorite color was red, despite the flooding river
of hematological crimson which had nothing to do
with m&m’s, easter eggs, wax lips or cinnamon sticks.
This child’s soul was clean but not blank, it was
exuberant and gaudy with scarlett crayon markings on
bandaids, and maroon letters scrawled on the palm
of his hand and red licorice and play-doh molded into
a stethoscope. He still laughed and played even when
confined to two dimensions: pillow up or pillow down
to be able to see the t.v. Billy made “whee” sounds
even as he approached the end, even sweating in
pajamas the color of fire engines and apples, that
strange day when morning turned to evening, that
evening of tears as we prayed our most excellent
prayers and the ghastly paleness of his skin begged
for the healing of fingerpaint. The soul that was this
child is now running-skipping-jumping full of color.
Red is no longer the color of trembling fear, of blood
that won’t stop. Now it means strawberries squished
by ruddy, ticklish bare feet all the forever-summer.