The color of dust settling

The calm before the storm 

The color of nothing, of feeling nothing, of running out of tears

The color of days when you're alone and you're lonely, when there is nothing to hope for and nothing to say. 

The color after you've been too melancholy for too long and you're tired. Tired of feeling like the pain won't go away

The color of numbness, the calm after the storm

When the rain has washed away the edge and you're still hurting but quieter

And just a bit more unbearably. 

My mother's maiden name was Crowe, which had been changed from Raven to a more English sounding name, which had been changed from Tulugaqukiuq. Tulugaqukiuq, Southern Qikiqtaaluk dialect of Inuit for a raven that stays put through the winter instead of leaving. On her mother's side Edwards was a lovely Britishification of Epstein, a blatantly Jewish surname that was tossed out along with the faith, just as any Inuit faith had been through out with her father's, grandfather's, and great-grandfather's name changes.

My father was perfect for her. Higgins hardly even has an etymology that makes logical sense. Forever holding a lifelong grudge against his father and his father's culture just because the man divorced his mother, my father was happy to throw away the Serbian surname Vićentijević in spite of his great-grandparents who bore that name all the way to the concentration camp at Sarajevo. Like my mother he threw Judaism away, clinging to the Irish Catholicism favored by his stepfather and snagging the surname Higgins in the process. His mother was ignored and reduced to a non-entity, making the choice to ditch the surname Surroi and all its' Albanian implications.

What is my name? A well crafted lie my parents and their families put excessive effort into. Kenneth, British-Irish first name. Edward, English and old fashioned middle name. Higgins, stolen Irish surname. You would never know from the name I bear the Jewish heritage that thrums in my veins, the ancestors who died for being of the 'wrong' faith, the Inuit ones who live in poverty in their own land now thanks to white people. You will never glance at my name and process it as anything more or less than 'normal' by the standards of the United States.

Names are disguises, masks that keep my parents safe from truths they don't like. Names keep their children from ever having to cringe during a movie about the Holocaust with the knowledge that we lost family to it. They keep us employed and never discriminated against while also throwing up a wall between us and our people, our heritage, languages spoken by generations past, immigrant stories of brave people we're descended from, tribal history going back centuries.

A rose by the name dandelion, spraypainted yellow, bears none of the romantic or authentic traits of the origin.

His sister’s schizophasia has gotten worse. When their parents decided she couldn’t go to normal school anymore, the stress and hurt made it worse. None of them understand her.

He understands her tears when he chases after her to her room. Her sobs wrack her body. “Patrick,” she murmurs, and he nods at his name. “Pig, papaya, pneumonia... practice, practice, I practice, but, pathetic, pitiable, problem!”

Patrick holds her, helplessly.

I came to visit you but you weren't living there anymore.

Instead you lived in a strange sepia flat round the corner from a roller disco night club. Your smart blazers and jeans traded for fox fur collars and lightening wheels, I didn't recognize you. We sat at the smoky bar and you  fed me peanut flavored lies. I tried to recall if I missed anything. We finally walked down hundreds of twisting winding stairs to the hell of the ashen street. Three blocks and under the archway you smiled, but it seemed so toothy. Your flat was all angles and glass, with round beds the likes of which I'd never seen. You promised they would hold me, coddle me, let me sleep the dreamless sleep of death. I was afraid, and after putting my case in the cardboard cubby, I fancied I saw a path in your mirror. The mirror was trimmed in purple feathers and Black Death though you couldn't see it. Sharp eyes followed me as you lulled me to the liquid warmth with cocoa and biscuits, you showed me old photographs of people we'd never met. I fell into a swoon and you carried me. We took the bright blue car, the one with the black interior. I threaded towards  Wroxton St, Mary but you turned me round too many times. I needed Dr, B. to assess my situation. Driving the narrow lanes, cows dotting the hillsides. Past the Rollwright Stones, the Stonehenge of the Cotswolds..so close to my destination, but lost with you and your words. Alone in the countryside there is no one to hear my screams.