When I was little my favorite color was purple. I do not know why. It looked fun, like a candy wrapper or those toys that came with sun lotion, I guess. At some point, this view was shattered. A grape juice commercial featured an actor who literally scared me away from my favorite color. There was something innately creepy about him. I tried to stop thinking of hues altogether, feeling betrayed as this man had single-handedly defiled my shade. Yet, I found myself plopped in front of a certain cartoon dog movie. It was memorizing. Despite my apprehension to become attached to another tone, there pink was. It formed clouds, looked like cotton candy, blended with the sky, and could be shaped into anything you wanted. I had established my new favorite color.
I would try to suppress memories of ever liking purple. I revered in the sun, examining the quality of pale red it made my closed eyelids. Secretly, I continued to miss how un-girly mauve was. Blush was usually associated with dresses of tulle, not sunsets and clouds as I saw it. I also glowered at ugly salmon crayons. Then, my grandma would reignite my passion for pink. She mailed me a small oval rug. It had specs of many colors, none of which was amethyst. At the side of my bed, this patch of pretty coral could be imagined as anything. From spaceships to flying clouds (not to be confused with a magic carpet) this rug held itself as the clouds in the movie did. Pink and I had rediscovered why we fell in love in the first place. It did not matter what other people thought, pink could truly be anything and look good doing it.
Today, I reside in a bubblegum pink room, which has since faded to hot pink, and been covered by light pink. I still think of the rug that saved me from living a colorless life. Stiff and rough to the touch it filled my room and heart with fuzzy memories of rose tints.