Seven minutes brought to me in living color

Cheyenne’s brown ears flap in the wind, her nose twitches at the smells on the warm air. She’s riding in the front seat, hanging her head out the window as I drive to the bank. A man sits on the bench at the bus stop, his elbows on his knees, talking on his cell phone. He has a blue bandana tied around his head. He looks up as we drive past, and opens his face to a smile.

A blue post box is at the edge of the parking lot. I have a letter to mail. Standing barefoot on the sidewalk after dropping the grey envelope through the metal door, I look down at my pajama clad legs. Bright pink, blue, yellow, purple and green cotton stripes.

The neighborhood homeless woman walks toward my car. Hey, Momma, you got any change? Her skin is dark, the deep color of red clay. Her t-shirt is blue, with Fiorucci in red across the front. I give her a dollar. As she walks from my car, she turns back and says, Thanks Momma.

At home I remove the bandage from my arm and toss it in the trash. Fiorucci red blood pools just beneath my skin, making my arm less my skin color and more bandana blue. And purple. More purple and blue than I've seen before. A line of bright sky blue weaves through the cause. It doesn't hurt except to know it's there. I tape a white gauze pad over the stitching and wrap the bandage around and around my arm.

All the color covered. All the color swallowed by beige.