The Nightstand

Chartreuse green, a chip of paint and wood torn off of the antique nightstand from the tape that held the drawer shut during the move. Between my finger tips, sliding up and down the grain of the sliver-shard the color of crushed avocado, from the nightstand my father owned, ten months from the day we were last in contact.

When I was small enough, I would squeeze into the cubby shelf that makes up the body of the piece of furniture, my shoulders pressed together in an intimate embrace, I savor the feeling of safety.

Years drift past,

I am old enough to know my favorite color is red. I zealously reject the color green and it’s polarity on the color wheel.

I can no longer squish my shoulders inside the nightstand.

It has been more years than can be counted on two hands since I was that small, and I return to the city where I lived with my father. I tug open the circular porcelain handle between my thumb and forefinger, the smell of baby powder pulls me back through time...

The boy small enough to fit inside the nightstand, the boy with a father,

it’s ok if you don’t like green.