Driving in Orange

A color as the anthem to this season of living.

I’m catching orange in a neon streak. North shore Long Island, 2023. A pocketful of good days judged by creamsicle sunsets. My heart beats in time to orange and blue. With my car pointed to the east I hurtle into the bruise of night. For a brief moment I’m caught in the magic middle of the ending and the start. Driving in orange, the car mirrors fill with a brilliant hot light. Street signs in the oncoming traffic reflect back the shocking hue. Little portals of orange activate memories of a far away place. But it seems I’m always driving away, searching for something out in the deep velvet blue.

If I could drive in orange, I would cruise down the coast and cut a line through the bubbling southern heat. Northwest Arkansas, 1993. I want to spend a day in a forgotten time with my parents as just us three. I want to meet them in the temporary life they built together and hug them in the orange iridescent glow. Driving in orange I imagine the shock on my parents face at greeting the woman their daughter will become. In our last shared day I want to soak them in, refresh my memories with something good before we say goodbye to this version of us. As the sun fades I would lean in close to softly whisper stories in their ear about the beauty of heartache and the courage found in fear. I need them to know their story lives within me, that I am filled with their light.

I come from a line of storytellers. On both sides of my family is a handful of folks blessed with the gift of the gab. These legends loomed large in my young life with their talent for holding a captive audience in the warmth of tall tales and jokes. I am made up of generations of stories traded around dinner tables, gatherings, deer camps, and tailgates. The deep bark and airy cackle of laughter is braided into my soul. When I crack up, what you are hearing is the generations pouring from my mouth.

As the sun fades I would lean in close to softly whisper stories in their ear about the beauty of heartache and the courage found in fear. I need them to know their story lives within me, that I am filled with their light.

If I’m driving in orange then I’m writing in blue. The verbal prowess of my family has passed down to me through the written form. Southwest Arkansas, 2020. I feel like a little girl again, suspended in awe at the unfolding of a hilarious tale. My dad regales us with stories about his own dad who passed away only days before. Friends, family, neighbors and familiar faces pass through the open doors of my dad & stepmom’s home, paying respect to our grieving family through the comfort of a hug and food. Each person leaves this home with a story about my papaw and a smile on their face. My dad holds us all captive with his version of tales about a man larger than life with hands the size of dinner plates and a childlike heart made of gold. A wave of sadness washes over me when I realize my papaw’s stories will only live through his family and how we choose to tell them.

Before his funeral my aunts and uncles find a collection of journals. Each page is a subtle glimpse at papaw’s life throughout the 80s and 90s. He kept notes on cows and chicken houses, deer spotted in a clearing, his children’s softball games, and friendly faces. My heart quickens when I find my parent’s names together on a page. Even though I am living proof that their love was once real, I can’t help but crave for more ephemera of their past. I recognize my handwriting and the writing of my dad in papaw’s crisp letters. Proof that magic is real. I wish I could remember the color of the ink on the page. It’s most likely black but in my heart it is blue.

I am made up of generations of stories traded around dinner tables, gatherings, deer camps, and tailgates. The deep bark and airy cackle of laughter is braided into my soul. When I crack up, what you are hearing is the generations pouring from my mouth.

Writing in blue on the eve of my birthday, I look back over my shoulder to my husband who is sleeping in our bed. If I could send one snapshot of life down the spiral of time it would be this right here. I want to send this moment to my younger self. North-central Oklahoma, 2011. Campus days of growing pains and generational cracks. When my head was filled with dreams and a war in my heart was just beginning. I want to send this image of today to my younger self as a tender offering of what will soon be hers. As the sun fades I would lean in close to softly whisper stories in her ear about days bathed in orange and blue.