Growing up, I had a favorite color—didn’t we all? When asked, I’d say blue. I liked it well enough, but it wasn’t a love affair. My mother, on the other hand, adored purple, especially mauve—a softer, gentler shade. Her closet became a tribute to purple, filled with clothes my sisters and I eagerly bought for her. Purple coats, dresses, velour jogging outfits (despite the fact she never jogged), shoes, scarves—if it was purple, she loved it.
When we painted her house, we chose a rich, dark purple feature wall for the living room, with soft mauve for the other walls. It was stunning. In the kitchen, we added a border of pansies—her favorite flower, naturally, because of their purple hue.
Today, my mom would have been 100. She’s been gone for eleven years, but she’s still with me in so many ways—sending little signs, especially in shades of purple, and even coins. The day she passed, I was hiking in Hawaii when two tiny mauve butterflies followed me along the trail. I remember saying, “Mom would have loved these.” When I returned to my room, I got the message that she had passed.
Now, at sixty-three, I still like blue, but purple has taken on a deeper meaning. It reminds me of my mother. I find myself wearing it more, drawn to it in nature. If you’ve read any of my novels, you may have noticed purple woven into the stories—my own small tribute to her.
Comments