The Colour of it

I started to think about the colour of it. The colour of my depression. Is that what this is, depression? Sometimes it feels like it is at other times it feels less than that – a fog, or a heavy greyness pushing down on me, or a blueness, a listlessness, an ennui, a lack of enthusiasm. It is hard to define. So what about its colour? Yesterday as I walked upstairs to do my yoga and make lunch I thought it was mauve, or perhaps lilac. It helped. It’s a gentle colour, not threatening, but slightly sad, melancholic. An old lady kind of colour, one who has grieved, seen things but sits in quiet acquiescence. Will that do? Will that be OK? Yes, I think so.

Then later he described me as golden.

Her experience has stayed with me. I keep wanting to talk about her. I’ve lost my sister, she said. She had a brain tumour. It was unexpected, a shock. She drove off, forgetting me. She drove off on the wrong side of the road in first gear. Her voice is breathless, quavering at times, on the verge of tears. So much grief, first her husband and now her sister, and there is her son so far away. He’s been hospitalised for three months and he didn’t tell me. I want to make it alright. I can’t. I will call more regularly. I want to be kind.