Color

one

"Willow, will you pass the peas?" My mother asks. The problem is, I can't tell the difference between the peas and hominy.

Only the slight plunge of butter that protrudes from the food tells me the difference.

I've been told peas are 'green', and hominy is white. White. I know that one.

I feel like a child. This world is full of grown children. When you're introduced to your mate, you're introduced into a whole new vision. Color.

"Here." I pass the vegetable to my mom. I receive a quick thank you before she continues to explain the wonders of color.

The amount of times color is 'casually' slipped into an everyday conversation is a bit worrying.

As if finding my mate is so easy. I've lived most of my teenage years subtly searching for him. Seventeen years actually.

My parents, as per usual, are discussing the appearance of my mate. What will he look like? Will he be tall? Or stout?

While they discuss height, I plead with God for a tall boy. What if he's not a boy at all?

He could range from any age really. He might not even be born get.

Everything about mates is preposterous. Two unknown humans are joined together by some unknown bond. It's uncanny, and not alluring the slightest.

Who would want to join hands with a complete stranger? Someone who doesn't know you, and you the same.

I haven't even figured out who I am. I need to see who I aspire to be before I add another person into my life.

"Do you think he will have radiant blue eyes, Willow?" My mother swoons.

She just won't stop, will she?

"I don't know, mum." I give her my best smile.

"Do you know the color of a willow tree? The bark of it?" My mum presses the shared knowledge she assumes I know.

"Brown? The same color as feces." I try to hide my grin. So does my father.

"Willow Dawson! Who told you such things?" She knows who told me my bit of information that should have surely gotten me kicked from the dinner table.

Poop isn't a topic of conversation.

"Holland." I announce proudly. I say my best friends name with dignity. My fingers are twitching, and so is my mothers smile.

"You children these days." She finally lets up, and smiles.

Sometimes she's too hard on herself. She always tends to act more mature than those around her.

Her age, at 35, is quite young for a mother of a 17 year old girl. I thank the lord I am an only child.

"Don't you hope he's a hunk?" My father wiggles his eyebrows at me, withdrawing me from my reverie.

"Sure."

Do they have a filter?

Most aren't as lucky as my parents once were. They found each other right away. My mother only had to wait two years for my father. They had been next door neighbors for years.

My grandparents assumed the talk of color was merely a charade they played off. Little did they know they had both seen the glorious hues almost all of their lives.

"Willow?" My father teases. "You're excused."

"Oh." I blush, smiling at him stupidly.

I get up from my seat, handling my plate to the sink. I rinse off my dishes.

"I'm going to call it a night." I tell them.

I stop in the middle of our hallway. I see the large fern plant in a bin on the side. Mother tells me the color of this object is green. I wonder what green looks like.

People have informed me there are different 'shades' of each color. That confuses me greatly. How many colors are there?

How many shades of green?

"Are you up to look around colleges this weekend, Willow?" My father asks me, withdrawing me from my reverie.

"One in Cheshire particularly." My mother point out her interested school.

"Sure." I smile, and finish the remaining mash of potatoes on my plate.