Green. My favorite color was green because the teacher said we had to have favorite colors and green was ubiquitous. Some said red. Some said yellow. No one said brown. Not that I remember. Did we know plum and lavender and aquamarine and the thousand shades that move across a sunbird’s dance. Perhaps some said pink. And maybe someone said black. That was provocative. You had a favorite color. You could name it.
A color that moved and infused and surrounded and erupted and submerged. Your dreams were flavored with this color and its scent surrounded you. It folded you in something like comfort, marked you as particular, but not different. No one said what made them different, only what made them particular and recognizable. We bonded.
Was it the wet of the algae on the bottom of the pond or the barely there whisper of fragile lichen or the soft moss on moist stone or the waving blades of knife-edge maize or the tickle and press of playground grass or potato-lightened peas in handfuls of full.
Yes, all this. Even more.
And how, when you poured too much into the cake batter it did not smell of mint or fresh but of the strings of chemicals that made the cake bitter, though your friends ate it with relish, because sugar was colored. And how the toothpaste with the mint taste was red or blue and it took a while to learn that mint was green and that it spread and that running your hands through it released something in you and for you.
(In the film the girl has a name that describes a character and her insides match her outsides.)