McKee 1

Color

By

Christopher Paul McKee

Clunk, Clunk, Clunk, Clunk. The rhythmic pattern of driving across the breaks in the Fish

River overpass, a sound I so fondly recall from childhood summers, stirred me from my fog of

thought and exhaustion, and was once again signaling arrival. The hours of repetitive scenery,

only made distinguishable by points of memory based mostly on monstrosities of marketing, had

always made that familiar clunking noise sound so good. The next turn would be a right off the

old and faded asphalt highway and onto the sandy red clay of Gavin Lane. The weathered road

gradually winds under towering oak branches, of which many are bigger than the entirety of

most other trees. Spanish moss drapes over and along the path, just grazing the tops of most

outstretched hands. As it drifts with every breeze, glimpses of the bay begin to peek through its

spiraled wisps, and on a clear day, the afternoon sunlight shimmers along the surface like an

endless school of anxious shad. Then the trees clear. Reaching this point, I stopped and took a

long, deliberate breath. Sights such as those tend to subdue the mind. Even internal tumult seems

bound by the laws of reverence.

The sky was an ominous grey with spots of deep darkness, and if somehow from me had

been removed the knowledge that it still was early afternoon yet, I could have easily been

resolved to thinking it to be nearing full-blown nighttime. I removed my shoes, and upon

noticing the fairness of what had been revealed, I laughed a little. It was one of those meager
 McKee 2

laughs that tend to appear right before you know laughter is nearing its inevitable boundary. I

stepped onto the first plank. It gave a comforting creak as I began to walk towards the end of the

pier. The wind was calm. Cattails gently tapped along the edges, as two or three seagulls circled

aloft, happy in song. Oblivious, or possibly somewhat perturbed and choosing simply to ignore

my presence, a single pelican rested stoically, perched motionless on a retired shrimper piling. I

bid him a nod, then turned to place my next step squarely on the last plank. My eyes slowly fell

closed. That persistent ache again began to burn and swell in my stomach. One year ago, on that

very day, on that very spot, everything was different; perfect.

Leaving the solitude of the bay, I headed for town. Upon reaching the first crosswalk, I

lifted my head to gather my bearings. As is local tradition, above and to the left hung three

baskets brimming with summer annuals of all shapes and varieties. Angelonia spires stood

heartily behind clusters of marigold mixed with petunias, the latter of which cascaded out of their

containers and spilled downward, appearing to seemingly never break vine as they travel up and

along every avenue and street. Large concrete planters line the sidewalks, each overflowing with

petunias. Few steps can be taken throughout the entirety of the town without being greeted with

blooming displays of brilliant pinks, reds, yellows, and even blues. Nevertheless, on that day the

looming greyness that enveloped the bay had trailed my movements. I stared at the hanging

baskets, momentarily frozen in thought. Then, I began to look around me. Everything had

changed, yet nothing had changed. The beachy colored doors and window frames draped in

wisteria. The meticulously hand painted shop windows filled with summer dresses. The

contrasting greens of Boston ferns clustered within banana tree leaves surrounding and adorning

the foundry cast sign which silently beckons visitors into the French Quarter. Nothing appeared

as it had before. A place that only a year ago had seemed irreversibly drenched in color and
 McKee 3

budding with life, now felt dimmed and drooping at every turn. Even the will of the ever-

tenacious petunias appeared somewhat wistful and withdrawn.

For months my appetite had been infrequent at best. I passed the bistro, then the bakery.

The shop windows of which were always lovingly arranged, filled with carefully placed

creations dressed to a tee, that rarely failed to garner at least a wanting glance. Yet, on that day I

had walked right by without so much as realizing their existence. Then, I felt a small rumble

coming from within. I assumed it hunger, of which the walk into town I supposed to be the

logical culprit. Pleased with this unexpected reprieve, I made for the nearest eatery that I knew to

be scenic, shaded, and somewhat sequestered. Entering the courtyard, my hopes were realized

and then some, as I found our table to be unoccupied. Seeing that I would be unchallenged for its

procurement, I steadied my pace and casually made my way over. The green and grated iron

table and chairs seemed as though they had never moved, and just as before, tiny droplets of

water splashing out from the antique French limestone fountain nearby had accumulated along

the arm and left portion of my seat. Her chair was still dry.

After making quick work of a “famous” turkey sandwich, I paused to collect my

thoughts. Resolving to re-immerse in my self-constructed and self-approved emotional refuge of

unbreakable optimism, I began looking around for a shop that might have within its walls a

supplement useful to those of such a condition; a gift that may never be given, but if given, joy

will follow. I gathered my things, and just before rising to venture on, I noticed something in the

wall of adjacent reflections that I had failed to ever notice prior. A narrow door had been oddly

placed perpendicular to the other storefronts, rendering it hidden from my vantagepoint.

Curiosity and the draw of the unexplored were already pulling my steps in its direction. Nearing

the entrance, I could see the weathered state of the door’s wooden trim, and unmistakable
 McKee 4

ancientness of its hand worn, oil stripped doorknob, which retained only miniscule portions of

what appeared to once be a golden color. I slowly turned it and stepped inside.

Gently shutting the door behind me, I spun around to give greetings to the clerk. Looking

up from the study of a magazine, likely the bluest eyes to ever see or be seen emerged from

under a somewhat disheveled mane of flowing, golden hair; the kind of look that is typically

reserved for those that are fully aware of their allure, and need not bother with the daily ritual of

enhancing such. I am conscious of the fact that light is always brightest in the dark, and

circumstance can greatly dictate perspective, but to characterize this girl with anything other than

adjectives typically ascribed to entities of immense beauty would be a definite injustice to truth. I

am certain my look of pleasant surprise was quite evident. Thankfully, I was met with what I

perceived to be a similar reaction.

She began our dialogue with the rehearsed opener of most every shopkeeper, “Can I help

you find something?” To which I replied, “Yes.” I proceeded to describe what I had in mind as

she stepped from behind the counter, which in doing, revealed long, tan legs that protruded out

from the frayed ends of her white jean shorts, the length of which only outstretched her pockets

by an inch or so. Over the next half hour, we would scour the contents of the small store, several

times covering the same ground as we got lost in conversation. We spoke of amethyst and

emeralds, third eyes and chakras, finally ending up on a bracelet consisting of an amalgam of

each. She wrapped it with purple and pink tissue and bound it with gold and blue ribbon,

skillfully spiraling each with the quick stroke of a scissor. We searched our thoughts for more to

say, as I signed the receipt with as slowed a stroke as I thought possible without risk of being

noticed. She handed me the bag as we exchanged a few more words and laughs. She told me her

name was Ellie. I told her my name, thanked her for everything, then headed for the door.
 McKee 5

Opening it, I put a foot forward, then started the look back that we both knew would be involved

in my departure. We had tacitly agreed to as much during our conversation, and with the keeping

of our unspoken promise, our eyes met one last time. Smiling, she lifted her hand and mouthed,

“Goodbye.” I returned the gesture, then pulled the door to its place of our original encounter, as

though stepping out from the pages of a good book I had momentarily opened and was now

closing shut; likely for good.

Noticing the time, I knew I had stayed in town too long and would be unable to reach

home before nightfall. The brightness of Ellie’s presence was gone now, and the darker reality of

why I had come there in the first place was slowly returning with visceral sensations. I wondered

if this trip had done any good at all. Had the retracing of my favorite past steps resulted in the

cathartic experience I had envisioned and hoped for, or had this simply been a momentary state

of escapism, born of beauty’s adoration but quickly buried by love’s absence? As I came to a

stop at the last intersection leaving town, those question raced through my mind without

hinderance or reply. I took one last look behind as I prepared to turn my focus to the journey

ahead. The clouds still seemed as dark as before, and now cruelly abated any hope of witnessing

even a glimpse of sunset. Maybe my efforts had all been in vein. Maybe things would never be

the same here; or anywhere. Then I saw it. There, in the corner of the rear-view mirror, clear as

day; clearer. It was bright. It was deep. It was beautiful. It was color.