The Watercolor Rainbow | Meagan Vicens

MEAGAN VICENS

I. When I was 5 I had a heart full of watercolor.

When I retrieved the white piece of construction paper from my favorite art closet in the kindergarten classroom, I’d splatter my sticky little kid hands across the empty canvas while the paint sprouted from my fingertips like a newly budding flower.

I always ended up with a rainbow.

I liked watercolor because there were only two ingredients to the recipewater and paint. You didn’t have to stay inside the lines or obey any rules. You didn’t have to understand anything at the age of 5.

II. When I was 10 I always wondered, Who painted the rainbows in the sky?

Maybe it was God,

or maybe it was a giant multi-color sky dog that pushed together the fluffy clouds to create a bridge that led him to a pot of treats.

I didn’t want it to be God, so I flooded my imagination with the hopes of one day crossing that bridge and finding my own pot of treats at the end of it.

My religion teachers always told me that bridge would lead straight to hell.

III. When I was 15 I felt insoluble.

Instead of an empty canvas, I’d walk the beige hallways of my catholic high school putting up a facade of faith. Faith in myself. Faith in my teachers. Faith in my friends. Faith in my family. Faith in God.

But I acted soluble.

I’d kiss the boys and gossip to my friends