by Lizbeth Delossantos

As a child,
I imagined everything as distinct colors
My grandmother’s cooking was a dark orange
My aunt’s alarm clock going off at 5am was bright yellow,
Playing Dominos on a friday night was teal
Mami’s “te amo” and “que dios te bendiga”
after every single encounter
That was pink
And so I sit and hope
that the purple kids can flip coins from outside a dark cage
that has been described as silver
That those cries you hear from those white vans
can be replaced with red tajin on mangoes shared amongst friends
not excuses
And that maybe one day
the grey men can meet color too