As the Pink turned White

 

spirograph-1982563_640 The other day he was telling me that I could count on him. 

What a liar!

I have seen death. I know you can’t rely on mortals. No matter how nicely the fabric of their intentions is stitched, there comes a time when it is ripped off.

Sometimes, it fades too, that is, before its guaranteed time. It’s better to just throw the garment off. There is no point of wearing something so outdated and out of fashion. Something that has lost its hue.

 

“I accept you with all your shades”, he had said.

 

“What about the darkest of them ?”, I had asked.

 

“Especially those”, had been his reply.

 

I had refrained from making a similar vow to him. I was not going to accept the color of the morgue.

 

“What is the colour of the death?”, his daughter had asked me years after his demise, “Must be Black or Grey”, was her answer to her own query.

 

I had shaken my head violently. “It is the brightest pink”, I had almost shrieked, “because it stands out.”

 

She hadn’t heard me though. Apparently, death was colorless–transparent! She could not see me. Her dead mother.

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