Interventionist God

It started with black.

The poetic color people always grieved upon.

I looked at myself in the mirror and I couldn’t see myself through the cloth of black linen folded across my face.

The hat, however, like that of the royals was well picked.

I didn’t even search for my face beneath it. I only watched in a fading black the texture of my grieving outfit. I took a deep sigh and walked out of the room.

I moved with a fixated motion towards a destination, not worth mentioning in the story but I walked that I knew for sure.

I have never understood the importance of black until I had myself to wear it.

Because it reminded me of colors, the spectacular blinding colors, that of when my niece sat painting with the enthusiasm of a child.

I watched her blend the colors and excitedly apply them to the canvas. I, soon enough, was no longer staring at the canvas but sat appraising her beautiful soulful youth.

How she saw little of what didn’t matter and invested in what mattered.

Her determination to be happy was intriguing.

Almost, almost contagious.

Did I forget how it felt like to be a child? or was it destined to dissolve in the desolation of the adult mind?

She looked up at me with her enlightening angelic smile and soon asked, “Why are you crying?”

God knows I didn’t know I was even crying.

God knows I didn’t know how I did.

God! Oh god, you must certainly know!

But then who are you to involve your mighty spirit in mine? Who are you to justify and reason as to why I was who I was.

I didn’t believe in an interventionist God anyway.

I told my niece, I didn’t know,

And she approvingly gave me the brush.