Yellow Walls

It was yellow. Like my grandmother's kitchen. When we were young. And she'd make us hot dogs. In an aluminum pot. Toasting the store brand buns under the broiler. We'd sit at the long table in chairs too tall for us and look out through the glass at the top. Of the rusted, dented white storm door. As it wheezed against the tug of summer. Breathing like an old woman. Sleeping in a bed she no longer shared with anyone.

We could taste the the potato cylinders as they were baking. The smack of trans-fats simmering in our nostrils as they expanded through the weighted air.

My brother's toes scraping the linoleum as his legs kicked. Anticipating the privilege of happiness.

Our words spilling from Hi-C stained lips. As we sorted out our dwindling rivalries. It was yellow. Where we ate together. Where she fed us. Food not on our plates. The certainty of childhood. The absolute in every moment. That more would come. Just like it. The happiness of tater tots.

It was yellow then. The luxury of happiness. The arrogance of children. As they chafed against time's heavy linens.

It was yellow then because that was how she made it.

And it's yellow now. Because that is the color it always was.