How odd … the childhood vignettes we recall.
No rhyme or reason. He is purple.
Father always struck me as melancholic.
He’d mouth sacraments – we’d faithfully echo.
Gentle, deliberate and perpetually deep in thought.
The pensive, purple stole caught my eye … crucified with gold. My virgin zeal, as I held the chalice, amethyst wine swirling around its cold edges. The heat as it stained my lips, tongue, throat.
My ire when forbidden a role in ritual, simply by virtue of my sex.
“You must linger in passive pews”.
And mute, violet eyes reflected in vestments which swept behind him like a bridal train, as incense burnt my eyes.