Posts Tagged ‘Adoption’

Everyone knows about red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and indigo. The colors of the rainbow. But there’s an entirely different spectrum of colors, those of the forgotten rainbow. Hues that catch your eye but fade in memory or shades that you never really notice. These colors are all very different: some are flashy, others drab, some are faint, others bold. But they’ve all been forgotten and that’s enough to create a connection.

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Russet Mud

It’s not so hard to conjure an image of the perfect couple. Far away in another world, a handsome young prince stares off into a glittering distance. He has citrine-yellow hair with piercing sapphire blue eyes. His body seems as if chiseled out of ice but you can tell that he’s also gentlemanly and knowledgeable. And at his side is a princess with brilliant ruby red locks and eyes of an emerald green. She is as elegant as she is clever, a powerful beauty indeed. Without a doubt also the type who enchants little babies and communicates with cuddly animals. In the background, clouds dance around the diamond turrets of the castle.

Your own clothes are suddenly splattered with russet-colored mud. A trip over a stubborn root in a crack in the sidewalk makes you forget your fantasies and return back to reality. It’s so much harder to imagine your own Prince Charming. Because for you, life is far from a fairy tale. Far from brilliant shades of color and flashy jewels that symbolize forever. Instead, you see the color russet.

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Puce Dress

I was this close to becoming a mother and yet I knew that it would not be the logical choice. In my current condition, adoption was the only way to make sure that my child would be taken care of. I knew that much.

Indeed I had always known. So why was it so painful? Is it like a child who goes after a toy only after his sibling first shows interest in it? After seeing the faces of the to-be adoptive parents, I felt almost jealous. After all, I was the one suffering during these nine months.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the happy Hollywood-esque family shows where parents suddenly begin to fuss about whether their adopted child really loves them. The child, of course, will say that it doesn’t matter who gave birth to her, that her adopted parents will always be her real parents. Now that I think about it, pregnancy is really underrated because it’s surely as arduous a task as actually taking care of a child. So much pain and regret without any reward.

Would they raise her differently? Love her as much as I wanted to? I hold on a little longer than necessary to coo into her ear, hoping she’ll remember my voice. Press her close to my bosom so that I won’t forget her angelic scent. The scent of an angel who will break my heart. The little dress she has on is a drab puce, darker than that of the two pink lines originally on the pregnancy test. I don’t really want to ever hear from her to-be parents. It is the end and it is much too painful.

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Olive Skin

Hello there my little boy. What is it you say? You wish to be a firefighter? That’s very nice. Firefighters are brave and strong and they save people. You can be a firefighter. In fact, you can be anything you want to be.

Oh really? You’ve changed your mind? Yes, it’d be pretty cool to be an astronaut. You’ll get to ride spaceships and fly to the moon. My little dreamer, you can reach the stars if you try.

So, what is it today? Sorry, I misheard you. What did you say again? You want to be…no, no you can’t. Whoever got such a notion into your head? Please don’t cry. Darling, there’s nothing wrong with your olive skin. Forget it dear, you can’t look like them.

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Bistre Grave

It’s dark and cold outside but the young orphan sneaks out anyways. Little Janice had told him a week ago that dead mommies and daddies were buried in the graveyard next to the orphanage. So now he would go and see for himself.

There are stone gargoyles with horns and claws in front of the gate to the cemetery. They’re there to scare off bad demons so the little child is not afraid. It is very cold so he imagines that the gargoyles are protecting him from the wind with their big wings.

It’s not too long before he notices the upturned grave and the old bones poking out of the bistre-colored earth. They look like finger bones and Little Janice did say that sometimes thieves came to steal wedding rings from the dead. It doesn’t really matter anyways since no one will remember this Mr. Charles Warton.  Warton or Wilson, it’s hard to tell from the weather-worn lettering on the tombstone.

But it really isn’t fair, is it? And not very nice either. The little child kneels on the silent earth surrounded by hungry shadows and makes a promise with Mr. Warton. If the dead will be forgotten, then so will the lonely. And in a bittersweet way, that’s comforting.

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Chartreuse Childhood

Like everything else, childhood is forgotten. Once, the bright chartreuse-colored ball bounced in grassy parks of the same color. All was bright and animated, like the cheerful notes of a flute in the background. You came down your side of the road on your tricycle and I on my scooter. We scrunched up our faces whenever we ate those sour lime-flavored candies and laughed afterwards. We climbed trees and flew butterfly kites with brilliant splashes of chartreuse paint since it was our favorite color. But somewhere down the road, it became too bright and childish, like childhood itself. And slowly the music faded into an unrecognizable melody.

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Carmine Blood

There’s a little game called Russian Roulette. And it’s rather easy to play. First we all sit in a circle around one of those old-fashioned revolvers with six chambers. There’s a single cartridge but no one knows which chamber contains it. Then someone spins the revolver like a roulette wheel. Maybe it’ll point at you: in that case, you must press the gun to your own temple and pull the trigger. If you’re lucky and only a click is heard, we’ll spin again and continue the game. But if you’re not…then it’s over for you. You’re forgotten.

What’s life without a little risk? There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush of feeling the cold metal against your forehead. It’s exhilarating and perhaps the reason why we’ll still play even knowing about the 1/6th chance of instant death. But even if your life ends, it doesn’t mean that the game will. Then the next day, we’ll add a new bullet and a new person and start all over. And the only reminders of you are the carmine stains on the dungeon floors, traces of your own dried blood.

Now that you’re familiar with the rules of the game, let’s play.  I’ll spin first.

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Midnight blue Memories

Have you ever loved?

And I mean ever truly loved? That unconditional surge of affection? Like the kind between father and son. Or at least the kind that should be between father and son. I know that he loved me once. But things happened.

Have you ever hated?

They started as petty disagreements but grew to full-fledged arguments. And neither side would give in. My father, he wasn’t to kind to show affection. And I was too busy being the typical rebellious teenager. Sometimes, it works out in the end. But in my case it didn’t. So my hatred grew.

Have you ever forgotten?

I lost contact with him for ten years. Ten long years. I was too proud, too frightened to apologize. Not ready to forgive. At night, I would stare out my window into the frigid midnight blue sky and marvel at how endless it was. But somehow, the distance between my father and I seemed even colder and much more expansive. Eventually though, I forgot about what we had been fighting over and found some courage where before there had been none. And now, I’ve finally returned when it’s too late.

“Dad, I wanted to…”

“Do I know you?”

According to the nurse, he’s had Alzheimer’s for the past few years. Fortunately, he was still capable of speech. But no one had told me. I curse myself for waiting so long and swear that I would give anything to be able to relive those ten years. Indeed, I was the greatest coward in the universe.

Have you ever remembered?

It’s now been months since I first found out about my dad’s condition. And sadly enough, this is the most time I’ve ever spent by his side.

“I once had a son.”

If I hadn’t seen his frail lips moving, I would have never believed it. My dad’s words are so unexpected and moving that tears start to rush to my eyes. I can’t even being to explain the sudden surge of emotion.

“What was he like?”

“I don’t remember.”

But I did. I remembered.

“Your son…he thinks that you’re a great father. And he…I know that he loves you.”

And far away, neglected dreams shimmer against a lost sea of arctic midnight blue.

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There you have it: memories from a lost past. A collection of emotions and characteristics that outline the hazier realities of life and death, love and hate. The colors of the forgotten rainbow.





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