The Internet test said “write down the name of someone you associate with the color red.”
I put my father, of course, because everyone knows that red is angry.
Poor red. So maligned.
Some anger is brown.
Deeply rooted, earthy, quiet,
smoldering like the bubbling brew under the Hawaiian Islands.
Some is green.
Nurtured at the hands of others, growing, jealous, victim-anger.
Some is frightened, paranoid, unworthy.
Whatever color anger – and I’ve had a rainbow – it’s definitely not all red.
But that’s still the color of my father.
His anger is of the fire-engine variety.
Hot, spreading, fueled by anything in its path, inflicting damage.
I click to the next screen of the Internet test.
It says, “The person you associate with red is the person you love the most.”
I feel deep, midnight, black-like blue spill down over my head like a cracked egg
and turn navy, then cobalt, then azure, then cornflower, then baby.
I don’t think any anger is blue.