The first time I saw her she was dressed in a bright scarlet coat, her hand outstretched clutching the string of a bobbing balloon.
She lost her grip. Her bottom lip quivered as her prized possession floated skyward yet she held back the tears. She had just turned four. I was eleven.
The next time I saw her she threw me a cheesy grin as she thundered passed on scarlet wheeled roller skates, a peeked cap perched the wrong way round on her head, her long black hair streaming out behind. At nine years old she was fearless. I was an awkward sixteen.
When I saw her again, she rocked a scarlet bomber jacket and black leather boots. At seventeen she was super cool. At twenty-four I was a bundle of blushes.
The next time we met, she wore an ivory dress clinched tight at the waist with a thick scarlet sash. Her wedding was sleek and stylish. At twenty-six she was beautiful. At thirty-three I was a mere plus one.
Our paths crossed again one hot summer’s day as she drove her scarlet four by four down the high street, her sable haired son strapped in the back. She tooted and waved as I crossed the road in front of her. At thirty-five her life was on track. At forty-two, mine had faltered.
I bumped into her again at a glittering gala evening. Her lips lush and glossy with a slick scarlet sheen, her dress a shimmer of sequins. The music that night was nostalgic, the mood a little carefree but when the sensible sunlight of morning spilled through hastily pulled curtains, she said there could be no repeats. At forty-one she walked away. At forty-eight I felt myself crumple.
When I saw her next, she sported a pair of scarlet rimmed glasses. Peered at me through their glistening lenses and remarked on the colour of my hair, still sandy after all this time. Hers had mellowed to a soft smoke grey swept up in a tortoiseshell clip. She looked great. Said her twenty-two year old daughter kept her forever young. At sixty-three she was radiant and energetic. At seventy years old my heart raced in her presence.
Today a wreath of scarlet roses adorns a simple wicker casket and I am dressed in black. Her daughter stands to say a few words. “We are here today to celebrate the life of my amazing mother. An ever loving wife to our dad and wonderful mum to me and my brother.” She tucks a loose strand of sandy coloured hair behind her ear. “A vibrant woman who believed in living life to the full and with no regrets. A mantra she upheld right to the end.”
I blink away my tears. At seventy-five she has gone too soon. And at eighty-two I finally realise that for me, it was always Scarlet.
