Confessions of a Citrine Critic


Yellow is the color of mellow, or so I had always been told; kind of like a soothing misbelief that if I’m draped in the color of the sun, it’ll make me happy again and the darkness that is actually swelling from deep within like black ink blotting my skin will fade in the brightness of the yellow, sunshine bursting forth in full glory and vitality.

But I, in my congenital knowledge of melancholy, know better than to put my hopes in a color.  Even as a little girl, I crayoned over the yellow coloring pages with black crayolas, painted over sun-kissed golden walls with blue tint, and refused to wear marigold to concessional Hispanic funerals.  There were no dandelions in my hair; no pretty dresses decorated with primrose flora; no canary bed linen with matching amber curtains.

Black and blues for me.

But as the chapters in my life begin yellowing – my hair having lost its sprightly luster years ago, my eyes fracturing at their corners, my signature glower aging me with ruthless disregard – I realize that it had never been despondency that had kept me from delighting in the sunlight color, but fear of getting too close to the rays and having my wings melt under its capricious whims, for who am I if not a sullen romantic simply waiting to exhale.


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