Color

Set your timer. Choose any color. Let your mind follow that color to a memory, or a scene, or a story of any kind. Put your hand to the page and begin. 
 
My color is white. Sterile.  The absence of color.

It is the bathroom that greeted my morning sickness.  The bathroom that I redecorated with a white shelf when trying to pass the agonizing moments.  The bathroom I decluttered in frantic grief.

It is the hospital.  The endless parade of doctors in their coats. The sheets that eventually became stained with the blood of giving birth to death.

It is the lack of color.  The room that was never painted.

It is the blankness of the pages of the gratitude journal that I’m supposed to write in.

It is the outline of my daughters’ shapes on the ultrasound machine.  The flicker of strong heartbeats, twice.  And then that white light of a heartbeat went missing, and was met with my wail.