Let’s build me a house.
We’ll start with red, as in the wine we’ll be drinking when we invite everyone to celebrate the completion of our colorful home. Well, y’all will be celebrating with red wine. I don’t drink, so I’ll be celebrating with my favorite shade of red lipstick, Armani 400 or something overpriced like that. Givenchy, maybe? In shade number 307.
The downstairs bathroom is orange, like a Utah sky. On bronzy colored fixtures, rust colored hand linens with turquoise borders hang, their softness begging to be touched. Underfoot is a fuzzy rug. I can see little golden flecks in the dark countertop that dance about when a candle is lit, the mirror reflects it’s glow.
The kitchen is yellow, bright and sunny. The cabinets and furniture dark wood. The same golden flecked counter tops are through out. There is usually something sweet to eat, if there’s not, have a seat, and have some coffee. I’ll have the cake out of the oven in just a minute. Sunflowers sit in a vase on the table, above an heirloom lace runner. Little’s art covers the fridge, along with magnets from all of the places we’ve visited.
My Little’s bedroom room is green. Hunter, like the forest of a child’s imagination. His bed is golden, his linens light. His quilts handmade with love by his great grand mother; One he doesn’t remember, but will never quite forget. His shelves match the teak of his bed, heavy and solid. And they have to be. He is his Momma’s child, his books are his roots. They ground him and give him knowledge. For this I am grateful. His models hang from transparent lines, reminding him that he can. His desk, an old roll top with it’s drawers filled to the brim with feathers and rocks and other earthy things to examine when time permits. His teak clock, houses his collections. The clock stopped working after his Daddy built it for him. Probably just needs a battery, but my Little can’t be bothered with time.
Blue is the color of the underporch. Haint blue, to be exact. It keeps the boogers away, along with the bugs. The porch stretches from one side of the house to the other, a swing on the back. 2 white rockers with a dainty table between them on the front. Sky hughed cushions and pillows are strewn in the chairs and swing, along with a blue crocheted afghan, especially for the cooler night air. A windchime sings it’s sweet song in the breeze.
Indigo is the color of the throw pillows in the den. Some are fuzzy, some feel smooth and cool on my face. Some are woven and rough, the shapes on their tapestries remind me of my ancestors. The sofas are dark and worn leather and they surround a crackling fire that we warm our toes by in the Winter. Little and I snuggle here the most. It’s our meeting place, where we talk and plan and write and read. And nap.
My linens are violet. My quilts all made from the same hands, each one symbolic of a different time, all splashed with violet because it is one of my favorite colors. They are heavy hugs to protect me while I sleep. The rest of my room is white. There are white rugs on cool, dark, wood floors. My bed is heavy. Wooden. My end table, littered with books and magazines, the shelves overflow.
My books are my roots, always grounding me. Drug around from town to town to this house. Our house.
Can you see it? 2018 Rainbow Lane?
Yes, Roy G Biv. Let’s build me a house.