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  • Rachel Welcher

Indigo and Violet

Indigo and Violet

The toddler is raging, there is
more snow predicted next week
and I am unsure if I will make it
to spring. It’s not that life isn’t
beautiful, it’s that it is also so very
hard. When I was young, I was taken
with the idea that certain animals
could hide using their skin. I made
it a point to look carefully at every
green leaf for a tree snake, at every
brown branch for a stick bug, and
in every ravine filled with mud for
the possibility that I might find a
shy salamander, the kind disguised
under auburn back, keeping his
fire-red belly a secret beneath him.
But now, my long fingers, stretched
toward heaven, become invisible in
this endless flurry. I try to find the sun,
the Son, the sun, through these brooding
clouds that love to break open but never
heal. It might be time to move. Or to dig
my “happy light” out of storage, or maybe
I should paint my body in hazy stripes of
red and orange, indigo and violet, to blend
in with the promises of God while I wait,
and wait, and wait for sunshine and new
grass. For the chance to let my one-year-old
outside without hampering her down in
heavy coats and scarves and boots. I would
that she would run free, barefoot and giggling,
so that we can give Winnie the Pooh a rest and
find our own honey in the sunshine of May, the
tangle of August, and the tomatoes of July. Why,
oh soul, are you so disrupted? Hope in God. Or else
I will have to remind you again: Hope in God. The
sun will not remain hidden forever.

Cover image by Rodion Kutsaiev.


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