The morning started grey and dreary, the same as nearly every other.

Last night’s showers washed away the previous day’s muddy colors, and my ambition went down the drain along with it. Light rain splattered gently against the concrete outside of my window, and the sun hid behind purple clouds painted in the sky.

I glanced at the analog clock on the nightstand and watched the hand strike exactly 7:00 AM.

Begrudgingly, I forced my feet onto the flat rug beneath the bed and counted down from 10. 9, 8, 7, 6, 5... I stood and spread both arms as wide as they could go. I dug my toes into the carpet as I stood on their tips, stretching every limb in my body.

Several bones cracked in defiance.

I took five long strides to the restroom and placed each foot firmly on the cool tile floor. The light flickered on as I flipped the switch and squinted at the brightness radiating from the bulb above. Once my eyes adjusted, I walked to the bathtub and turned the water on the hottest setting.

I needed to feel something this morning.

The mirror steamed up, and I wiped the fog away with my hand. A blur of two tired eyes, a distorted nose, and cracked lips was revealed. I placed both hands on the bathroom counter and dropped my shoulders, exhausted before the day even began.

My toothbrush, placed near the center of the sink, slipped from my grasp as I reached for it and fell brush-side down against the toilet’s base. I shuddered at the thought of putting that thing in my mouth again and flung it into the trash. Typical. I reached under the sink, unwrapped its replacement, and carefully lined the brush with paste.

I made sure to scrub until I tasted that salty, metallic flavor.

I spat out minty hemoglobin and rinsed the flavor from my tongue. The shower burned my skin, each drop leaving its mark, just as I expected. With a pumice stone, I meticulously scrubbed every inch of accessible skin, a futile attempt to cleanse the grey away.

It did not work.

We fly down the highway at speeds my eyes seem incapable of anchoring themselves in. Anything beyond the passenger window blurs together into one, long green and brown smudge. Every now and then, blue peeks through, exposing the sun’s rays, begging to touch whatever last bit of earth they can reach.

Slow down!

The words reverberate urgently in my skull, but as usual, they get caught in my throat on their way out. I swallow them back down, and the confidence that got stuck on my spine follows, the taste of shame its only remnant left behind.

Confrontation makes my stomach bubble, and sometimes my bowels scream for release at the first sign of provocation. It’s very possible that asking someone to slow down is not at all confrontational, but in the off chance that it is, the little voice in my head takes over and decides it’s best to keep quiet and not find out. I concede and blame the lack of a nearby restroom on our route.

During long rides, I always find myself playing a game I’d never named, thought to share out loud, or put to paper until now. The goal is to lock my eyes onto a specific tree in passing, and hold it in my sight for as long as I could possibly manage. Sometimes I’d roll down the window in anticipation of needing to lean a bit past the frame for a few glances longer. It was my best attempt at remembering each of them, of scanning every leaf and every branch and every missing chunk of wood.

I only had a few seconds, but I really did try my best.

Tears swell up in the corner of my eyes. I immediately throw my head back in response, and a loud yawn follows–an unspoken attempt at distraction from the heaviness of my chest bone.

Holding back tears is a practice of deep breaths, an exercise I’d mastered after years of car rides. Breathe in, one, breathe out, two, and so on, until I somewhat regain my composure. My right hand reaches to roll the tempered glass down, and I bend gravity in my favor to keep the flood rising against my will, at bay.

I’m easily saddened by the passing of people, of time, and I guess of the trees.

I figure the wind’s push, combined with gravity’s pull, will create just enough pressure to force my tears back into their ducts. Below my thighs, a sticky pool begins to form from the pleather seat’s direct contact with my skin.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and laugh at the sight.

How dramatic can you be? The voice inside innocently mocks, and I giggle at the absurdity of staring out the window like a character in one of those Hallmark movies, as I hold back tears about missing the trees.

“What’s funny, I wanna laugh too?”

The voice beside me is barely noticeable in comparison to the beat’s vibration, blasting through speakers with an unnecessary amount of bass. I decide to keep the joke to myself, an inside joke, and point towards the display screen, signaling the song as the source of my laughter.

An inside joke, shared with an inside voice.

I nearly let out an audible laugh again, but instead bite my tongue until I flinch and turn toward the wind while mouthing words of the tune playing, that I don’t know a single word of. I wondered whether or not crying for trees or sharing a joke with oneself was absurd, but before I land on an answer, a familiar rhythmic vibration interrupts mid-debate.

What a horrible sensation.

I usually keep it on Do Not Disturb throughout the day, but considering the circumstances, I temporarily yielded my digital shield. The screen is slanted, half covered by the cup holder it’s placed in, and those wretched bubbles start to form in my gut at the sight of the name pictured.

Hastily, I reach for the phone, swipe up, turn the DND back on, and lock the screen. I can’t control the feelings of others, their expectations of immediate follow-ups, or constant attempts at contact, but I can control my response frequency and timing.

I toss the phone to the backseat.

That buzz is always such a horribly bittersweet sensation, usually more bitter than sweet. People are always behind it, and people, unlike trees, make both my head and heart race, sometimes together at once. Their pointless conversations, meandering around requests, and unsaid expectations drive me insane.

It’s only on a rare occasion that I wish I could command time, like I do the wind and gravity, so that the voice on the other end of the call might remain suspended in the moment, just a while longer, like I do the trees.

I reach forward and grab my purse placed in the console between the front seats. My fingers feel around inside of it, making contact with a red prescription bottle. After unscrewing the plastic top, I shake loose 2 round white capsules from the container.

The chill sets in within 15 minutes of taking the pill, and I decide to give my attention back to the smear of green and brown racing by.

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I made it a point to cry in at least one public space each day.

It didn’t matter whether I wailed or if it was just a few teardrops, impeccably timed to fall at the perfect moment; I shed myself communally, for all to judge, but most importantly, for all to see, every single day.

At first, it was hard deciding where to relieve myself. There are 365 days in a year, and I never wanted to repeat the same place in a week, so it felt nearly impossible. But at this point, 2 years in, I had a running list of environments to complete my daily deed: overwhelming sobs in the checkout line at my local grocery store, visible meltdowns at red lights while each window remained rolled all the way down, hell even at work, as I once wept at in a packed break room during lunchtime (that was pretty awkward if I’m being honest here, would not recommend).

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If there was space, opportunity, and another warm body in the vicinity, preferably a few, I made sure to cry.

Today, my chosen place of reprieve would be the train. I figured a trolley packed with unassuming travelers was the most fulfilling place, where everyone was in their own worlds and thoughts and microcosms. I’d ensure as many eyes as possible caught at least a glimpse of the streaks gliding down my berry-blushed cheeks. I turned Ms. Badu up as loud as the headphones allowed, and the beat vibrated through each speaker.

“If I could get over that hump!”

I studied myself in the full-view mirror set up beside the entryway of my home and was delighted by the view. A vibrant yellow dress wrapped around deeply plum-colored skin, creating a striking palette of yellow, gold, and umber. “A bitch could use a little more yeaow!”

I stepped back for a final look, double-checked to ensure my eyeliner was perfectly applied to the waterline, intently added another layer of mascara to each eye, and headed for the door.

Thank you for reading Gold & Umber. This piece is actually where the name Plum Prose came from, as I fell in love with the color palette gold, umber, and plum.

This short fiction connects to a larger essay I’m working on about crying as healing and my experience with performative resilience as a Black woman. I’ll link it here once it’s live.

If you have thoughts, drop a comment. I’d love to hear from you.