"The Color Red"

This morning, the treetops still wear the look of late winter—bare, no icicles, no heavy snow, but not yet ready to burst into full bloom. If you look closely, though, you’ll see red buds at the highest tips of certain branches, tiny signals that the season is shifting. A faint haze of light green and pale yellow is beginning to outline a few trees, soft strokes of early spring brushing the neighborhood awake. The air smells fresher, carrying that damp, earthy promise of new growth. Today, at last, it truly feels like spring. You can see it in people’s faces as they walk through town: a lift in their expressions, a brightness that wasn’t there last week.

But something else catches my eye on the streets of Peekskill—everyone seems to be wearing red. Bright red coats, cherry‑red sneakers, a scarf here, a hat there. I can’t explain it, but the boldness of the color makes the town feel even more alive. Red has always been an odd color for me. My bedroom was once painted a deep crimson—a dramatic choice I sometimes regret. I’ve worn red before, but it never felt quite right against my skin. Too stark, too loud. It’s not about politics or trends; it’s just a matter of comfort. For some, red is confidence and energy. For me, it’s a color I admire more than I wear.

Spring is here, and with it, the streets are full of movement. Boys and men—yes, “men,” as some insist—stroll by in red tank tops and red-trimmed black short pants. The sun glints off their clothes as if highlighting the city’s shift from gray to technicolor. I start to wonder what people might be wearing today in the Village. The thought brings a quiet smile, a private amusement that tugs at my focus. I know I should be writing, working on my Painted People project, but I hesitate. If I dive into that world, I might not resurface in time to enjoy this day. So I bargain with myself: one more paragraph, then I’ll stop:

She came back into the living room, offering the ice pack and settled in with her snuff cup, facing him across the coffee table. Her manner shifted—direct, curious, but not unkind.

“Ya borne in San Francisco, chile?” she asked, pushing the ice pack toward him.

“No ma’am,” he said, pressing it to his lip. “I was born in Waco, Texas.”

“I ain’ never heard of no Waco. Where ’bouts dat?”

“It’s about a hundred miles south of Dallas. You’ve heard of Dallas?”

“I sees somethin’ ’bout a Dallas on dat blame TV dem grandchildreum puts on—mens runnin’ an’ tusslin’ like wild animals. Somethin’ dey calls football. But I don’t like it an’ don’t want my grandchildreum playin’ it. It’s a dirty sport.”
 
There’s a pull to get outside, to step beyond the terrace and desk of Painted People six stories above Main Street and join the festival of colors below. The city feels festive, almost like a living painting—new leaves, red attire, and the restless energy of people eager to celebrate the season. I want to be part of it, somewhere, anywhere, in this April spring where the streets are alive and everyone seems to belong.

​That’s where I’d be, if only for a little while, basking in the warmth and color of a world waking up again.