At thirteen yellow was my favourite colour. I wore a daffodil gingham skirt, sewn by my mother. Paired with a giant orange t-shirt, to hide the bumps on my chest. When faced with a difficult moment, I would trace those checked contours like a way out of shy. A yellow brick road to calm.
Oxford yellow was found in kitchens. On buttery walls of the snug or carpeted bathroom. It made summer last through the grey lightless winter. Brought port meadow inside. Pressed shadow fossils of fly honeysuckle and creeping yellow cress, onto ceilings. A reminder of golden Ibiza sands between toes.
Melbourne yellow was the brilliant sun. Molten-wide in the agapanthus sky. The colour for my baby not yet known. A pasty lemon rebellion against pink and blue. The only two colours sanctioned for children.
Yellow was my son’s sons first pair of gumboots. Worn on opposite feet. Splayed with independence. Matched with a nappy and dinosaur singlet, he wrestled the garden hose, watering zucchini flowers, unaware his ureter was pinched top and bottom. Turning him jaundiced. As his kidneys began to fail.
