Passion Is Not Pink

Passion is not pink. At least not in this incarnation. Of this I am certain. I am almost 74, and it hasn’t been pink yet.

At least not like Himalayan Salt. Or Key West sunsets. Or rose gold.

“Passion is often red,” I said. To myself. I ought to know.

Not like a valentine, or a heart-shaped box of chocolates. More like the red I see when I look at the sun through my eyelids.

Once upon a time it was deep purple, like an eggplant. “It might have been black,” I said, “but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt.”

But now I recall a roundish, white-haired man on an elevator, holding a slice of Key Lime pie on a white plate. I could swear I saw passion on his face as he stared at that plate. It might have been pink, that passion of his.

Who’s to know?