Zealous and orange was my ‘crayola’ Sun. Shards were made by sleeves as I brushed away crushed wax. My father was an orb, I drew him indigo eyes making the edges perfect. He breathed grey curls next to scribbled brothers. I drew my Mother straight by Tulips she planted, crossed her auburn hair out yet made her lips Pink pressing till the crayon snapped so her beauty wouldn’t fade. I drew myself by her side, shadow black next to Jesus who I stabbed a year later with the mocking sun on the day when I prayed by a vase of fresh tulips for life to pink again.