#150

I hate red, and he gave me a gift wrapped up in crimson ribbon. I thanked him and smiled politely, and braided my hair instead of leaving it long and flowing. It was a picture I painted. He said it was beautiful and I left him the next day because that canvas always represented anger.

Yesterday I saw my father for the first time in years. His homecoming was announced by a sarcastic cabbie yelling ‘hey thanks for the tip’ and squealing off. I didn’t even know he was back in the country. His new American name is Don. Because of his accent, it sounds more like “Dong.”

When he left years ago, my brother did too, and I painted it all down in red on the walls of the basement. Aunt Jada took me in, and that’s when I stopped visiting you. Said she couldn’t bear to have the church folk see her driving to the penitentiary once a week. My sullen face was punishment enough for her.

I’m stable now though. I could have been Van Gogh if it weren’t for Zoloft.