The room has a particular sound and scent I can’t yet place. But it has absorbed everything. All the big ones – memory, metaphor, nostalgia, empathy – into a dusky yellow.
I see it now as a slipping in. Slipping into a melody or a somebody, into a joke or a night or a flower. When color slips in, I see it laying on the surface of a thread, pooling in the center, digging deep there, seeping through, while the edges remain barely touched, young.
A color may appear differently on a plate than on a bowl. Orange may look darker on a dress than on a sheet. Become a lighter hue or another name altogether.
Combinations of forms – light hitting a wet street, deciduous trees littering hills, triangular sails pointing away from jetties – even these abstractions hold tight. But not until you call it by its name, leave and return, does home do this.