She wore yellow to his funeral.
I have a few scattered, yet vivid memories surrounding the time of my dad's death.
He passed away shockingly, unexpectedly... 27 years ago today.
Some of what I remember, I'd like to forget. I can feel my seven-year-old pain, confusion, worry.
But something I don't want to forget?
Seeing her wear yellow to his funeral.
Our lives, in an instant, changed. We were knocked to the ground by a train of despair that we never saw coming. Life, as we knew it, was over. What our days looked like, felt like... gone. We were scared, and we were lost.
She chose to wear yellow on the day we buried my dad and laid his body to rest in the ground of a South Carolina cemetery.
Yellow... a color of hope, a color of happiness, a color of strength and of joy and of faith.
A color that told us we would make it through this storm. We would find our rainbow.
We would be okay.
Yellow - the color of the sun, the promise of a new day.
And I think I finally realize why, for my entire life, yellow has been my favorite color.
On this exact day, 27 years ago, I experienced unimaginable loss and heartbreak. I was a seven-year-old, shattered. And it wouldn't be the last time I felt such pain.
Life continues to knock me off of my feet. I find myself brokenhearted and scared and lost and confused and sometimes even drowning in the brokenness.
But then I see her, in yellow.
Who taught me everything I know. Who is the reason I am just who I am today, and that is someone I am proud to be. Someone who is strong and who feels big and loves hard and believes in the sunshine of each day.
And whose favorite color is yellow.