Yellow

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As the festival ended, the red and yellow tents that had been set up slumped into what could only be described as animals with scoliosis. There were large poles hanging lanterns of various hues slowly dimming down, yet they still held the spirit of the festival in their fading lights. My eyes glistened as I gazed at toys still hanging from their yellow hooks, hidden within the booths with toy guns and targets.

I remembered coming to fairs like these with my father, my tiny hand wrapped up in his, trying to wriggle out of his grip to run after the clown with balloon animals or to catch a glimpse of the street performers swallowing fire or knives. I remember imagining that they had holes in their stomachs to be able to swallow those things.

Through the noise of all the festivities, I would hear the voice of my father echo in my ears: “Come along, love. We don’t want you getting lost now, do we?”

The echo seemed to be getting further and further away now. The lights were dimming; it’s getting darker. Why does the fair need to end?

“Appa! Watch the fireworks with me!” I could hear myself exclaim with childlike excitement.

I walked past the field near the bell tower, where they would launch the fireworks. Bursts of orange and yellow launched into the air with the sounds of gunshots following. I could hear all the happy families sitting on their quilted picnic blankets, ones their grandmas had knitted for them. I could have been sitting on a blanket, but not without him. How could I?

I don’t want the festival to end; his festival never ended. He’s still here, trying to win me that teddy bear I wanted so badly to add to my growing collection. I can feel him next to me, telling me about the different colors of the fireworks and their wavelengths.

He liked Yellow. He wore it all the time. We used to joke about him being a highlighter; he said that he wore it to stand out because he was important.

I kept walking, away from the sounds of the gunshots. Gun. Shots. He was Shot.

Before the parking lot sits a small bridge with an even smaller river running beneath it. The flowers here are yellow too: daffodils and sunflowers. They hang over the handrails of the bridge, making an almost perfect walkway. The flowers make it really pretty in the summer. At night, they just look black and white.

I can hear his old loafers clopping against the planks of wood. He used to tell me stories of the yellow wheat fields in his hometown. He was a farmer’s boy. Whenever I’d complain about going to school he’d start a whole spiel about waking up at the crack of dawn to finish all the work he had that day. He used to tell me about flying a kite he’d made out of a trash bag: “It’s good for the environment,” he’d say. Once I was older, his tales of childhood fun turned into darker stories from the cold recesses of his mind. He started telling me things that only a therapist should hear.

He wasn’t okay, and I knew that.

He wore the same highlighter shirt and smiled and took the pills so that he could keep his yellow. He would tell me that the yellow was what made him who he was. At one point, the pills stopped working.

We kept guns in the house because we lived in the woods. What if a wolf attacked? We moved to the woods so that we could have guns. He planned it, didn’t he?

Gunshot. Gun. Shot. He was shot. By his own hand.

Yellow has range. It could be bright, or it could be putrid. Tears fall.

“Love? It’s okay.”

I could hear him. He hugged me. I could feel him next to me.

“You are my yellow, my love. You will always be my yellow. Thank you for being my yellow.”

I was his yellow and my jeans had grass stains from kneeling on the ground like this. I can hear him nagging me about doing the laundry again.

“Miss, are you alright?” A hand reached out to me, a hard-working hand with calloused palms. I followed the hand to see the eyes of a man with the kindest smile.

His sweater was yellow.

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Published December 16, 2021

Written by Abinaya Balaji ~ Edited by Mackenzie Pritchard ~ Graphics created by Trisha Shukla