Purple. A rich, creamy darkness that can darken a room or outfit. A soft, tender beauty that enriches a baby nursery. Purple is the color of beauty and royalty, but it is also the color of death. Purple, to me, symbolizes death.

The car ride was tense and silent. My father white-knuckled the steering wheel as he took ragged breaths, shallowly filling up his chest before puffing it back out. He lit a cigarette and the putrid smoke drifted around the car. My stomach turned and I breathed in through my mouth to minimize my nausea. The day was melancholy. It was overcast and the sky was threatening to throw a tantrum at any moment. I sighed softly and palmed the cold glass, leaning forward and fogging up the glass with my warm breath. I knew we were close even though I wasn’t very familiar with Eugene. A nervous knot filled my stomach and I started to fidget.

We arrived at the hospital and parked in the parking garage. I shuffled my pudgy ten-year old body out of the car and into the dank concrete structure. My shoes tapped and echoed in the creepy building. A shiver crawled up my spine as the cold fog buffeted my skin. We got in the elevator and traveled up before entering a lobby. From the lobby we went into the extension that lead to the other wing of the hospital. The extension was a big glass tube. I went to the edge and peered out the giant windows to marvel at the ant-sized people. My dad grabbed my arm gently and continued on.

Finally we entered a waiting room. Dad immediately walked over and started rubbing this womans back. My cheeks pinkened and I looked at the floor, confused as to why he was touching this strange woman. I walked towards them and shock electrocuted my senses as I recognized the strange woman as my gram. I gasped softly, stunned by her appearance. Her hair was purple and she was gaunt, her always smiling face wan and tired. I was so confused, I didn’t understand. For the first time in my life, I saw my father cry.

We sat together in the wickedly uncomfortable chairs before one of the pretty nurses called us back and ushered us into one of the tiny exam rooms. Gram sat on the bed and my dad took the other chair in the room so that left me to stand and hold her hand. The door opened and a little man came through, not hardly bigger than me. He had a small asian face surrounded by thick black hair, and he had stunning blue eyes that seemed to pierce your soul. His sadness was written in his eyes, though the rest of his face was carefully articulated into a mask of nothing. He reached out to shake my hand and his hands were the same size as mine. He in turn shook my dads hand then patted Gram on the back. He sat in his little spinny chair and fiddle with papers on the shelf. The tension in the room was tangible. If the elephant got much bigger, he would crush us. I saw the little man swallow hard and clench his fist before taking a deep breath and making eye contact with Gram, “I’m so sorry Edie,” he murmured softly. “Your cancer is too far along. You won’t survive this. We can try to keep you alive with Chemo but the longest you’ll live is about a year and a half, most likely a year though.” My father stood and punched the wall, vibrating the entire room before storming out. I felt like my stomach was the wall he had just punched. I was in shock. Gram cried but I felt nothing.

Everything was a haze of purple. My anger was boysenberry, my tears were violet, my sorrow was magenta. Purple, purple everywhere. Purple was death, purple is what took my gram from me. Purple is the color of Pancreatic Cancer