Warm Orange.
Here’s a story:
When my mom was pregnant with me, she craved oranges. She’d drink orange juice or eat orange segments every day — picked straight off of a tree, warmed by the sun and into the little orange juicer that we used even after I was born. It reminds me of her, of closing my eyes ‘til all my eyelids see is orange.
I think that every story I write is about my mother, in some way.
Even now, if you cut me open, I’d spill that color.