A personal vignette:

Somewhere Between Gray, White, and Purple

For as long as I can remember, my brother would tell me stories about girls he met during school. He would obsess over them, talking about the color of their hair or the way they smiled or the jokes they shared during class time. Perhaps his voice was low when he spoke. Or maybe he wrung his hands. He would seem to shake sometimes whenever they talked about their boyfriends, eyes averted with just the tiniest bit of shame. His tirades always had a kind of sweetness to them; his face would be blushed pink and his eyes would be dazed as if drunk, dreaming, it seemed, of walks on the beach or sharing popcorn at a romcom. Meanwhile, I would listen to his wistful cajoles, picking at an ice cream or straining to watch a cartoon while it played in the background. Or maybe I struggled with a math worksheet. Or fussed over a drawing. Or tapped my fingers on a book, my hands between the white sheafs, trying to make sure I had not lost my sentence while he reiterated for the hundredth time how pretty she was.

Each time he talked, my brother treated relationships as something of great, almost cosmic importance. They were the sacred rites he would need to endure in order to become The Man He Needed To Be. Being alone was ridiculous, even shameful. My parents thought the same thing of me, but they were rightfully careful. Like good parents, they lectured for hours on end about the dangers of boys. They warned about boys who liked short skirts, boys who liked long nights, boys who might offer funny drinks; but, oh, there are also boys who would walk me across the street, boys who are studying to become doctors, boys who will take my hand in theirs and be satisfied with that alone. Looking at my brother – and his eventual girlfriends – they would turn to me, expecting the same worries and romantic ideations. Don’t be afraid, I imagine them saying. When you’re ready, go ahead and bring him home.

Years and years later, imagine a campus. I am walking along gray sidewalks, listening to music. Maybe I am hurrying to class, or eager to join a dinner with friends. In either case, I have long forgotten about my brother’s wishes and my parents’ lectures; they’re vague happenings, instances with the same sentimentality as taking out trash or brushing my teeth.

I open the door to a building, and the memories scatter like so many dandelion puffs.