It is my opinion that orange is a rather unappealing color. Or... I suppose I should say that was my opinion. But I don't mean the orange that is found so naturally in the sky, or the orange that can be seen in the leaves of autumn, or the skin of pumpkins. Those colors are the ones that are supposed to be beautiful; they represent the ebb and flow of time. The virtue of change.  No, that orange isn't rancid, nor is it repulsive to view and even more repulsive to remember. No, that orange isn't the bad one, and the orange that I see in my love's eyes is certainly the most brilliant orange I could have ever seen. Despite the color being a reflection of nature as we know it, I can't see it that way, because that shade within his eyes is an entirely separate, and even more cherishable thing to my own heart. 

 

That particular day, I lounged in his arms. The arms that were so warm, so strong, and so safe, hands splayed against my back and gently rubbing against my skin. The mid-afternoon catnap we took on some random Saturday, the catnaps he hates so much. He can't ever seem to let his own body rest for even a moment. Always moving, always active. That day, though, was one where I was able to convince him to lie down and relax. And after a quiet huff of acceptance from his lips, we lay there, light filtering through the crack in the curtain. As the clouds moved through the sky, the sun's rays shifted to illuminate the beautiful eyes staring at me through the muted darkness of the bedroom. Soft hues of amber and honey glimmered back at me, speckles of dark brown and shadows of bronze. Devotion swirling throughout the irises and mapping out freckles of chestnut and small, almost imperceptible rings of green. I had quickly gotten lost within them, floating through his love and effortless beauty before touching back down onto the Earth and grounding myself, yet again, in his arms. 

 

That afternoon left a lasting impression on my heart, and the impact that he had on it will last eternally. I see orange everywhere I go now, and I don't think I have the heart to find it repulsive anymore. I see it in the flowers that sit so beautifully in the beds along the buildings on campus. I see it in the backpacks that sit beside me in the classroom. I see it along the spines of the books in my home, lined just perfectly by author and publisher. The stacks on the floors and on the small altar of black and white candles, the persimmon flame flickering on the far side of the room. I see it everywhere.

 

 And where I once thought only of my aversion to the color when I saw it, all I can see is him. All I can feel is the ghost of his large hand grasping mine, months later, as I walk alone to my car. The reflection of his body walking steadily in the glass cases of the store as I shop alone. The outline of his soul's presence as I lay in bed at night, sheets cold and foreboding, contemplating the color of the sky. He is with me wherever I travel and wherever my mind wanders in the depths of my conscience, the fleeting touch of his hand reaching for mine in the nothingness of the darkness. I see the color, and I imagine him there, within the sky or the extensive collection of books in my room, his outline pensive as he gazes at them like I seem to remember. 

 

 After that day, I began to bring him all the earthly oranges I could find, like a crow that brings shiny trinkets to your doorstep after you feed it a peanut. Crackling leaves along the windowsill, citrine crystals to keep in his pockets, and carnelian for his desk. I made sure that he could see orange every single day, because even if he still loved the color pink and would hate it when I brought it up, I would at least bring him orange. Until the fateful evening that he would choose to leave to pursue his dreams, with a white coat on his shoulders and the title Doctor, promising his return one day. And as I watched him go, standing alone in the wet driveway of my home and seeing his truck depart and his hand reach out to blow me a kiss, I would cling to the memory of that day, holding the orange bear he left to protect me in his stead.