Purple Love

Love isn’t a shade of scarlet, blush, or rose; it's a sharp stroke of purple on an otherwise bleak canvas. Those who dare to truly love paint the world with lively violet notes.  I came to understand the color purple on a rainy Valentine’s day when I was nineteen.

 My morning had been like one of those vintage film reels with faded frames. It was juxtaposed between constant displays of young love and tired longing that seemed as ordinary as the passing of time. Every face I stopped to look at was either held by a bright glow of hope that they finally possessed the magic of life or a crushing portraiture marked intensely by the lines of loneliness. The lonely faces reminded me of one of those Rembrandt paintings mama showed me when I was young.

 I couldn't help but feel out of place. Is indifference worse than tragedy? I just knew that red ribbons wouldn’t make me happy, and I had no desire to accept affection from people who didn’t love me like Mr. Darcy.

 I found myself in a state of curious observation. I sat back with an over-filled mug watching the Shakespearean drama unfold at my feet. I debated whether life was more like Hamlet or Twelfth Night. My play was interrupted by a sudden act of Deus Ex Machina. A skinny figure in a habit approached me and reminded the world about that kind of gritty love that everyone seems to forget on Valentine’s day. Why were we ever fooled into thinking that love is the pastels of candy conversation hearts, the glow of cheeks, or the scarlet envelopes of CVS stationery? It has to be something more real than a fading blush.

 My newfound friend wanted to share her wisdom about the different ways to love. Love exists in every moment when you walk the path Home, holding souls quietly and desperately in the deep parts of your heart. You’ve found your true love when you pray to God to send the Angels to keep every hair on his precious head. Beatrice inspired Dante to write 14,223 lines of poetry. Botticelli was buried at the feet of his Venus. Dan gave Mary a purple gumball ring almost 3 decades ago, and Dave loved his wife long after his hands grew purple with age. Real valentines don’t get put in the bin as February fades into March.

 I remember most vividly our dialogue on the love of friendship.  She asked if she could read me a letter she wrote to her best friend when she decided to become a sister. Happy yet familiar tears formed in the corner of my dark eyes as she spoke because my friends were growing too. 

I knew more than ever that to love is to act with insane bravery. It teeters on the precipice of stupidity to let yourself feel that deeply about anything. Our long conversation ended with an agreement that embarrassingly  listening to our tender human hearts is the easiest way to put a smile on the face of our Father. In parting, she gave me a bouquet of violets from the only valentine I needed that day: Christ.

Looking at them, I was struck by their color. With an intense wave of melancholy,  I knew that this had to be the exact pigment of the bruises covering His body when He saved me. I would now forever associate love with violet shades.

I thanked the spunky sister with the purple flowers for reminding me to make the Father smile. I kept the parchment-wrapped bouquet in a chipped mug on my window seat for as long as they would last. When they shriveled, I hung and dried them.

That night when I got to see Him in the Monstrance, I placed one in my braid and told Him “thank you” with all the fervor that my tired heart could conjure. How can I accept an ingenuine pink sugar heart that asks, “would you be mine?” when the greatest love I've ever witnessed always comes in purple?

Flash Issue 16