So much more than yellow paint

When I am old and senile and wear diapers, someone will try to jog my memories. I may not remember names. I may forget where I am or where I'm going. But when I see rich yellow, the color of butter, I will remember.

I don't think I'll remember sore shoulders or a kinked neck. I won't remember scrubbing every yellow inch of me to scrape the skin as well as the paint off my body. I will not feel pain in my sinuses from the overwhelming fumes. And I doubt it will bring to mind cleaning out brushes silently late at night after everyone else has gone to bed.

When I see yellow, in my mind's eye I will see a young girl, so enamoured by the closeness felt after a three hour long discus ion with her mom, that she lingers and lingers over her pajamas asking for "just one more story about when you were little." I will see the full double rainbow we ran up and stared at in awe.

I will hear the soft sounds of a baby bird as it settles to sleep and startles when we laugh. I will hear the incessant questions and chatter of a Ladybug as her hands work and the key to her brain opens.

I will feel accomplishment, that of little ones learning a new skill, and creating their own environment to live in. Even better, I'll feel my own achievement of watching yellow drips down walls, on white carpet, and on an antique desk without balking. I will feel the peace that comes from knowing that we all must learn sometime, that we all make drips till we practice, and that some things matter so so much more than a paint job.

When I am old and sad, show me yellow.