ODe to yellow

She loved yellow
like most people love coffee—
a daily need, a small religion.

Not just any yellow.
Not the pale kind that fades into beige
or the highlighter shade that screams too loud.
She loved goldenrod.
Lemon rind.
Sunflower-at-noon yellow.

Her socks were yellow.
So was the keychain on her bag
and the sticky notes lining her mirror,
each one scribbled with things like
“Don’t shrink”
and
“Buy more lemons.”

When it rained,
she wore the same mustard raincoat
and told people
the sky just forgot its color,
so she brought extra.

Once, she dyed her hair yellow—
a blinding, buttercup mistake—
but she laughed and kept it
like it was on purpose.

When she talked about yellow,
you’d swear it had a heartbeat.
It was the color of joy, she said.
Of ripe things.
Of beginnings.

I asked her once,
“Why not blue or green?”
She shrugged.
“Because yellow tries the hardest.”