Bubble Mask

When was it?

That fateful point when gray shrouded me

and distorted my view

so that everything and everyone

was hateful?

My brother's death?

The gang of girls jumping me on the playground?

Or puberty itself with its ugly hormones and chemical imbalances?

Not to mention the gangly awkwardness

and zits.

But I discovered a bubble mask.

My own little game to play.

And I kept the mask because I liked the rainbow

even though the colors were fake.

And the gray shroud was still underneath.

Then the mask popped.

And the shroud became unbearably ashen.

The so-called experts said bubble masks are bad.

The mask was something called OCD

O

C

D

Round letters like round bubbles.

So I tried to go without colors.

No rainbows.

"If you're going to take the bubble mask,

can you take this damn gray shroud, too?"

Time went by.

I fell in love.

I became a mama.

And I began to notice holes in the shroud.

Color came seeping through.

Green first.

The color of life.

Then sky blue - so calm.

Buttery yellow.

And the rich red of the lipstick I put on my daughter

as she prepares for her dance class photos.

The colors are so familiar.

Because I've seen them before.

But the colors were dull

and distorted.

Now they're so bright and clear

it almost hurts.

I want more color.

I want to gently blow away the bubble mask.

Rip the shroud to shreds.

And let the colors bleed into my soul.