Vinculado, Stephanie Claire V.

09-12-22
Philippine Literature AB POLSCI - III

Crayons, Canvas, & You

"If I were a crayon, what color would I be?" He asked while we were lying on the couch -- his body
embracing mine while our hands intertwined.
I thought about it for a while. I wanted to answer blue. Blue has always been my favorite color. And it
wasn't because of the seas or the summer skies. Blue reminded me of that dress I wore the night I turned
eighteen. How the fabric of the cloth touched the floor of the ballroom as I walked in. How my friends and
families looked at me as if it was their first time seeing me. Blue. The night my cousins and I decided to go
skinny-dipping in the pool and the guards chased us furiously. How my past lover grabbed me by the waist
and planted his soft lips on mine. Only to find out he did the same thing to the girl in his passenger seat an
hour before we met on a Saturday night. The same night my parents exchanged muffled arguments in their
hotel room. How my cousins pretended to hear nothing while we were on the other side. As if it would
make everything okay. But it would never be, right? And there was I in the midst of it all, chin tucked
between my knees, thinking how God could create a moment so perfect only for it to shatter you in
indescribable fragments.
No, he couldn't be blue.
Then I thought of orange. Orange is a good color too. I remember the first time I cut my hair. I was seven
years old and badly wanted to become a grown-up. I used a pair of orange scissors I found in my mother's
drawers. Her face turned red when she saw my uneven hair strands. She started lecturing me as a good
mother would. My youthful exuberance on the other hand found the situation funny, and I tried my best to
stifle a laugh. Those were happy times so orange could be a good option. But it was also the color of my
grandfather's worn-out shirt the day he spoke his last prayers. I remembered my father crying silently---
hiding his tears while his hands shakily held mine. Nights before the funeral, my father told me stories
about how Lolo was a good man. When he thought I'd fallen asleep, he would caress my hair and let out a
sigh. It was a sigh that spoke of regret, yet no words could articulate the weight it carried.
Not orange.
So, what crayon should he be then if not the hues of blue and orange? Should he be red like the grade I got
when my teacher flunked me in math? Perhaps a shade of yellow like the curtains in my bedroom? What
about pink --- the sweet scent of the very first cologne I bought with pennies I saved in a tin can? Then I
looked at him. He was staring at me --- his face written with an amused expression, patiently waiting for
my answer. I knew I was beginning to look dumb. His lips could no longer suppress the smile that was
threatening to form. That smile made me feel emotions made manifest in colors --- all the hurt, the joy, the
desolation, and happiness splashed into one palette. And in a split second, it occurred to me. Why do I
associate all these colors with dusty souvenirs from my past when the answer was already lying in front of
me?
I turned to him and he cupped my face in his hands,
"You're all the vivid colors in our whole new canvas," I answered.