She has become the color white through the shades of summer


Kiera Kemppainen

The perfect picture of white changing to magenta; the two colors of the girl’s childhood and identity.

She paints flowers to calm her shaky hands. Her 1990s golf cart is covered in them. Bright hues of yellow in the center of the flowers remind her of the sun; it reminds her of the joy she has yet to find.

She spends her summer in that very golf cart adorned with the name Tabitha. She finds herself stopping on the side of the rural roads to pick flowers. The tradition started during a week of camp when her friend spent the time staying at the girl’s house— she keeps scissors in the cart for this very reason. 

She picks hues of magenta in floral form, the color of childhood. She used to spend her time begging her mother for fuchsia flowers. Now, they represent a time where nothing ever mattered. She was too young and naive to see the real world. She hopes that if she has flowers of a similar color, her worries will fade and she will become her younger self. 

She collects tints of golden yellow. Her mother used to buy marigolds and mums; both were purchased at different times of the year. Yellow reminds her of a friend who has always shone in a yellow light. The joy spilling out of the friend’s eyes is infectious. The girl needs a yellow in her life, and while her friend is away, the wildflowers must suffice.

I suppose she feels as if she is the human form of white; she is too easily prone to change.

She finds bright whites and deep creams to add to her bouquet. Queen anne’s lace adorns the edge of the street one over from her house. White, the symbol of purity. White, the memory of life. White, the easiest color to change. I suppose she feels as if she is the human form of white; she is too easily prone to change. She has never been the same person her whole life. Her personality changes with the direction of the wind. She longs to find her way back to white.

Summer brings a time to find herself with minimal distractions. She waits patiently for someone to bring her back to white. She will never get help to be there; she must learn on her own. She has always been quite independent; this makes her despairingly similar to white. 

White will never be like the other colors—it sits alone. Yet in light form, it is all the colors. The girl works quietly on her own. She turns around and suddenly she is all the colors. She fits in, even if she doesn’t feel it. She can blend and match with any person, but will always be of her own breed.