Copyright © 2013 C.L. Mannarino
All rights reserved.
It is the color of dad’s briefcase collection, their inner mesh, elastic-rimmed pockets full to bursting with similarly-colored mobile phones and computers.
It is the color of the ink in grandma’s typewriter, whose keys stick and whose ribbons are drying with age, making the letters on the brittle typing paper look faded and worn.
It is the color of the intricate, metal Gothic crosses still lying in old jewelry boxes from the dog days of middle and high school fashion phases.
It is the smell of cigarettes and dust lingering on the furniture of the old peoples’ home, even though there’s a no-smoking policy.
It is the taste of 85 percent cacao dark chocolate melting on the back of your tongue, its bitter, stinging flavor a reminder that not all candy is sweet.
It is the feel of six-month-old kitten fur, downy and glossy and smooth. It is the feel of seven-year-old dog fur with a coarse, thick stripe down its back that gives way to lighter, softer hair around its hind legs.
It is the dulcet sound of piano in Haydn’s Sonata n.9, or the vocal climbing roses that are the chorus sections in Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor. It is the sound of soft rains darkening the ground on a cool fall evening with the glow of the table lamp reflecting in the window.