I asked him what his favorite color was. Not because of my love for randomness, but because it was a prompt to choose a color and write about it through a writing group I participate in. And I liked the idea of knowing that tiny piece of him besides.

I already knew what my choice would be; red, of course. It seemed obvious at the time.

He gave me an answer that was hardly an answer at all, and when I explained to him why the question occurred he said, "Red is good. Been feeling red all week."

I couldn't help but wonder at that-- what feeling red is like.

Is it the heat on your skin, when the sun shines red through closed eyelids? The flush of your face, having said something you can't then undo? Maybe the comforting warmth of red wine at the end of a long day; not too fruity, not too dry.

Red reminds me of life; of the blood through our bodies, of birth, of vibrance and light. It reminds me of singing freely, music loud with the windows down in my bright red car.

It reminds me of lips, ready to be kissed; of the crayon so beautifully scrawled on my desk; of tired eyes after a good long cry; of my almost favorite pair of shoes, if it weren't for them being too big.

Red. The color of life; of love. Of our hearts, possibly worn on sleeves. And then I couldn't help but agree that I'd felt red all week, too.

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