The Colours We Give | On hold

| 17 |

arashi

I DIDN'T WANT the dandelion to be blown away. I was hoping for it to remain intact. But it didn't. When the breeze grew harsher, it let go of all its little fluffs. And for some reason, that made me want to cry.

But I obviously didn't. I can only visualize how uneasy Tassel would feel if I randomly burst into tears. Especially after she pointed out that I was staring at her lips. I'm more embarrassed than I'd like to be.

"Let's solve the fourth question together," Tassel says after the long pause that resulted from my question. 

"Yeah," I say, not really wanting to. If even my head was in it, these questions are way too hard for me.

When I told Tassel about answers being fated to questions, I was thinking about the dandelion. How it managed to stay intact for a long time, unlike the rest of its kind out there on the field. As if there was a string of fate holding on to its little ones. But then it ripped. The little ones flew away, breaking off from what held them together.

My mother used to talk about fate a lot. She believed that not just couples or lovers, but everything in the world is connected with red strings of fate. From a lyric to its tune, to an answer to its question. And even a wall to its colour. That's why, she always used to pick out the colours as carefully as she could before painting houses.

I recall what Dad used to call Mom often to tease her. "Prism," I say out loud, laughing quietly. "He used to call her Prism."

"Who used to call whom Prism?" Tassel suddenly asks, bringing me out of my head. 

I don't mind what I'm revealing, but it's bothering me that words are randomly slipping out of my mind. "Dad used to call Mom that," I answer. Since I've already started it, I don't see why I shouldn't explain it to her entirely.

"That's so cute," Tassel beams, smiling widely. "But why Prism?"

"Dad said, and I quote, 'She shows me that the things I see in white are actually coloured bombs invisibly exploding.' " I say, smiling at the memory. 

I remember my seven-year old self asking him, "Like what, Dad? What do you see in white?" 

I was confused. Everything around us was of different hues. What did Dad see as just white?

"Myself," he answered. "I used to think I was plain white. And then your mother came along and showed me how I looked dispersed."

"That's so cheesy, Scott!" Mom shouted from the kitchen. 

The conversation had left me even more confused back then, but I knew it was something special because it made both of them happy. It made me shout, "I wanna be Prism too!"

My parents laughed, encouraging me at the same time. 

But it's only since the last month I've realized the gravity of it. I've seen what Dad went through. His glass prism shattered too soon, and he lost sight of the colours he once believed were his. I tried to talk to him, but he shut himself away. And I realized, being a prism is easier said than done.

"You're Mom sounds beautiful, Arashi," Tassel says. She brings her knees closer to her chest and rests her chin on them, and then smiles even bigger. I wonder if this is the look she shows Lance when they talk. Because damn, she looks pretty. "I wanna be a prism now," she says, the pretty smile still plastered on her face.

"That's nice," I say, smiling back at her and my memory.

"Let's both try, okay?" she says, giving her hand.