Yellow by Anemone Beaulier

Aspen leaves flutter to the still-green grass as our youngest child, Teddy, rambles through the yard, whacking the tree’s silvery trunk and mushrooms, sprung after a rare Wyoming rain, and our raspberry bushes, their citrine fruit gone since August.

In the process of teaching my son colors, I pluck a leaf from the lawn and enunciate: “Yellow, like the sun.” He doesn’t know his shapes either, so I add, “But curved like a heart. A yellow heart.”

Teddy grins. “Weaf, Mama. Not heart.”

“Okay. But it’s yellow. Can you say ‘yellow’?”

“Weh-woh,” Teddy murmurs, staring at the leaf I twirl by its petiole.

Watching my son, I’m reminded of my long-ago devotion to the color, a staple of Mom’s anecdotes: “Everything yellow: your bedroom walls, toys, swing-set. You’d only wear yellow. But it’s not for toddlers: it stains.”

I bend to Teddy. “Do you love yellow?”

He grimaces, piercing leaves near his feet with his stick’s jagged point. “Not wuv weh-woh. Wuv…” Spotting his Tonka dump-truck across the patio, Teddy races toward it: “Wuv twucks!”

“Your truck is yellow,” I call.

“Not weh-woh! Pink!” My child begins to beat his love, hollering with each crack of the stick: “Twuck! Pink! Twuck! Pink!”

I rub the waxen leaf between my thumb and pointer to a separate beat: Yell-ow heart, yell-ow heart…

*

Though this golden affinity predates my memory, a series of snapshots feature my preschool self in a pair of butter-hued pants dotted with pink rosebuds, the knees growing dingier with grass- and mud-stains as time progresses. Often, I carried a plush yellow duckling—which grays over the course of the picture albums—and a mustard blankie, its velour edged with satin. 

Mom, hoarder of all things with marginal value—crumbling National Geographics, thirty-year-old Playmobil sets—tossed my ratty clothing, duckie, and much-loved blanket. But, for a decade following my disavowal of the color, Aunt Jean gifted me yellow objects—a doll in a daffodil dress, a sunny sweatshirt, a hummingbird molded of lemonade glass and suspended from a wire stand—some lasting long enough to be boxed and trucked to my first apartment. Thinking them artifacts of a distant self, I eventually gave the doll and bird away as irrelevant. 

Now, mother to four children, I see how intensely they love certain objects. Dismissed by adults as “phases,” these budding passions hint at the sympathies and desires of tiny humans who can’t otherwise articulate their identities. Elle studies Taylor Swift’s album booklets, memorizing even mediocre lyrics. Lia struggled through the Lord of the Rings books at age eight, pouring over pages until she made enough sense of one section to move to the next. Pax carried a frog net on every hike we took for years and burst into tears if we didn’t catch an amphibian. Teddy packs his die-cast trucks in a backpack each time we travel, then lines them up on hotel room carpets. 

I can only guess at what their respective obsessions reveal about my daughters’ and sons’ temperaments: Elle hopes to forge personal connections through poetic confessions; Lia longs for adventure with a purpose; Pax comprehends our world through the microcosms of its most fragile inhabitants; Teddy wishes to impose order on the chaos of his parents’ wanderlust? 

Likewise, I have only conjectures about my reason for once surrounding myself with yellow. Was it simple as the innate human pleasure in all things bright, beginning with the sun? Or did I feel a more personal connection due to frequent comments on the blonde strands that once fell almost to my waist?

*

What I’m sure of: the relinquishment of such intense devotions, especially under duress, stunts a tender soul’s development. A towhead, I broke off my public affair with all things sunny after repeated admonitions that “blondes should never wear yellow.” I avoided the color not only in clothing but proximate objects: backpacks, bikes, bedding.

But with what could I replace it?

“I like you in pink,” Mom confided. “But Dad likes you in blue.” 

Dad, who slept through afternoons at home with me while Mom worked. Dad, who grew sullen if Mom did up her hair, downed a glass of wine, and asked him to dance. Dad, who growled, “You know how she got her job,” at the sight of a female news anchor in a short skirt and lipstick. Would he love me if I differentiated myself from more trifling women?

I adopted blue as my favorite, wore it almost exclusively (as baggy shirts and pants), and asked for my bedroom to be painted a baby-soft hue.

*

When I was ten, Aunt Trish explained seasonal color analysis while we browsed a store’s sales racks: teal and coral complemented my skin. 

In my teens, I studied Aunt Anne’s black and white outfits, composed of classic pieces—pencil skirts and cigarette pants—to go with her Marilyn hair and deep tan. “She’s so beautiful,” people said, “and always has a rich boyfriend. You look like her—a bit.” 

Whatever furtive affection remained for yellow, I feigned indifference.

*

After finishing assigned readings and acing projects, I ripped through novels on evenings and weekends. Add that compulsion to my Kmart-clearance-wardrobe and the scarlet I flushed when taunted, and I became the favorite target of mean girls in my elementary classes. By middle school, though, I carried an Esprit bag and wore Levi’s bought with babysitting money. I continued reading prodigiously in private, but once I costumed myself for assimilation, bullies backed off, boys showed interest, and I found a group of friends.

In my senior photos, I opted for a black v-neck sweater; in a self-portrait for a college photography class, I half-smiled in a cream crewneck over broken-in jeans. I look beautiful—I see that now, though I didn’t then—and the outfits appear timeless. But I gave no outward indication of my fancies and fetishes: I didn’t wear the R.E.M. shirt my brother gave me (I figured, since I liked them, only dorks did) or the cat pin that resembled my pet (a gift chosen by Mom, I judged it too matronly). I didn’t wear jewelry, aside from dainty silver hoops.

My clothing expressed my ambivalence about who I was, my fear of self-revelation. After years of internalizing Dad’s petty misogyny, Mom’s coaching about ladylike unobtrusiveness, and classmates’ gibes for my brandless apparel, I hid behind white tees and faded denim, the cloth equivalents of polite small-talk made to avoid incidental confessions.

I became a blank screen for projections: “pretty,” “sweet.” But I was punished when people realized I wasn’t what they imagined. After a date or two, at the ends of which I shyly turned a cheek to kisses, boys lost interest. Girls, who wanted a mirror of themselves, grew cold when I failed to provide an exact reflection. 

Rather than prompting me to head off rejection by hinting at personality through my appearance, though, these interactions confirmed I ought to dissemble. I preferred to experience loneliness in the company of others, rather than loneliness in isolation. 

*

Dad left Mom, then returned. But Mom kept crying and starving, got fired for distraction, and lost interest in her book club and garden, even her children. She visited me twice in the four years I attended a college two hours away. 

One of those visits, though, she pushed a spade into the cold October soil outside the ground-level windows of my basement apartment, tucking a bulb into each cleft. Come May, daffodil blossoms swayed heavy on their stalks as I finished papers at a desk beneath the open casement. When I called to thank Mom, she sighed, “You used to love yellow.” 

*

In my twenties, though I often fell back on black and white, I also purchased sweaters in amethyst and emerald, dresses in turquoise and tangerine. Mom helped me select a wedding gown, its tulle skirt embroidered with blush blossoms; paired with a bubblegum bouquet of roses and peonies, the dress seemed a rebellion, its extravagant femininity a rejection of Dad’s wish for me to be austere as the cold, northern lakes beside which, due to his preferences, we lived and vacationed.

But I chose platinum engagement and wedding rings, supposing my ash-blonde hair and wintery skin necessitated sticking to metals with cold sheens. Yellow remained off-limits for things touching and surrounding me: no gold jewelry, dandelion throw pillows, saffron wall paint.

Still, the hue tinted my better minutes. Living in Virginia while my soon-to-be-husband attended grad school, I found solace in hiking the Blue Ridge’s yellow fall, even as I missed Michigan’s reds and oranges. I hung a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night in my classroom, a glance at its swirling sky a reprieve from ninth-grade students whining about essay assignments. On my commute home, I belted out Coldplay’s “Yellow.” 

By thirty, I’d quit waiting for serendipitous run-ins and began to seek yellows. In Macon, we bought a Tuscan yellow bungalow and painted our bedroom “Weston Flax.” I planted clumps of daffodils—jonquils, our neighbors called them—at the forested edge of our Alabama yard. We chose “Enlightenment” for the kitchen we remodeled in Fargo. On arriving in Laramie, I painted Teddy’s nursery “Moonlight,” like a storybook’s star-ringed crescent. And I dressed my babies—even my blondies—in banana pajamas, bumblebee onesies, and butterscotch tees, like a band of rowdy sunbeams. 

*

Still, as an adult, it’s hard to find yellow clothing that isn’t a putrid mustard or washed-out butter, as if we must take ourselves more seriously than sunlight, ripe corn, and autumnal ginkgo trees. I pause over a sundress in a shop window or squint at a blouse on a website only to pass on the item as too dull. Give me a marigold yarn, an August-sunset cotton, a shade that vibrates—or nothing.

Sometimes, though, I find the perfect gold cardigan or beaded necklace—and keep it tucked away in my closet, afraid to commit a fashion-faux-pas, my adornments clashing with my ponytail.

*

How many bright, beautiful things have I excised from my hours due to someone else’s tossed-off admonition? An elementary school art teacher called my drawings messy; I quit. A music teacher clucked when my singing went off-pitch, so I forevermore mouthed the lyrics. Guidance counselors billed my ruminative quiet a flaw, so I swallowed nausea to give solo flute performances and ace speaking assignments. My father (a teacher) extolled education as the one noble profession, so I cast aside thoughts of being a poet and journalist to become a teacher for two soul-bruising years. 

Now, when I wake from dark dreams, I stare at the ceiling wondering what I’ve taken from my kids. Did Pax catch my sigh when he again brought up diplodocuses? Did Lia note my unfocused gaze when she showed me another sunset painting? Does Elle mind that I mix around the names of her novel-in-progress’s cat and dragon during our discussions? 

Perhaps. But they still display their enthusiasms. Elle emails chapters of her book to friends, and Lia walks about with paint rainbowed over her fingers, forearms, and pants. Pax assumes every person he meets also has a fossil collection. My children read fat books as we await service at restaurants with no concern about appearing too studious, and they talk to anyone who talks to them without first assessing the other person’s coolness. 

They also don their favorite hues without hesitation. Pax prefers orange sneakers, water bottles, and turtlenecks of pumpkin and persimmon. Lia likes teal and Elle lavender; we paint their rooms and find dresses in those shades. Teddy chooses pink heart-shaped sunglasses and barrettes to go with his monster truck tees. I photograph them in their vivid outfits, October leaves bright behind them, my own heart burning with admiration and a bit of envy: they’re more authentic than I’ve ever been.

*

I still think myself blonde, but maintaining that illusion necessitates salon visits. After, as I step into the sunset blazing down Grand Avenue, I feel gilded, bounteous—not diminished by motherhood, wifehood, middle-age, and my father grousing, “Bottle blondes are cheap women.”

I reject his dogma—and everyone else’s. Yes, I often sport black because it’s practical for spending days with my kids, hiking or climbing dusty playground equipment—but my closet blooms with fuchsia and jade. I don cashmere or sequins when out with B, though many Wyomingites wear jeans even to formal events. And never mind my pallor: short skirts showcase my toned calves. I break the no-yellow taboo, too, keeping gold hoops in my lobes for weeks and favoring a leather cuff encrusted with bronze beads. I spend Laramie’s brief summers aloft on a pair of marigold wedge sandals, then switch to sunflower suede driving mocs to kick autumn leaves.

I understand adorning the body is a minor art in comparison to willing a masterful poem, painting, or garden into existence, and such acts of self-expression at best alleviate mental, but not physical, anguish. And I also know neither human joys nor miseries matter when measured against geologic time and galactic distance. But, like a glimpse of wild roses glowing along a path or numbering the dimples on a baby’s hand, the insignificant but pure delight of possessing an exquisite bangle or pair of stilettos adds its weight to other fleeting pleasures that make us desirous to live. 

Call me silly, smiling at my sparkling wrist, sunny feet, and halo of hair. But I’m seizing the golden moments, aware of the alternative.

*

I wouldn’t name my pleasure at spotting hues of yellow “love” anymore. I love my husband, my kids, my parents, memories and mementos of my time with them, certain poems, paintings, and novels, our cat… I would suffer without them—but not in a world absent yellow.

Still, my pulse speeds up a tetch when I glimpse morning rays through a honey jar or miles of wild sunflowers in ditches along a prairie highway, the metallic glint of our cat’s eyes or the golden hour fading through our bay window as we set the table for a December dinner of chowder and cornbread.

But only certain objects set dopamine whispering through my brain. I wish there was a “dislike” button for Instagrammers posing on sunflower farms with their sullen kids, often in cowboy boots bought just for the occasion. I’ll never purchase a tee printed with a yellow smiley face or find comfort in buying potatoes fried golden under golden arches.

And there is the unfortunate connection of “yellow” with humanity’s ugly impulses. Once a signifier of jealousy, it remains associated with cowardice. Time has obscured the origins of this link: medieval art often depicted Judas Iscariot as blond-bearded and clothed in yellow, but the hue’s unhappy connotation in the American lexicon, beginning in the mid-1800’s—“yellow-bellied” or having a “yellow streak”—cannot be pinned to a source.

“Never mind,” trumpets the sun, buzzes the bee, nods the black-eyed Susan. “Look at us, and be happy.” 

*

My children reduce me to leaden exhaustion, arguing about who should do dishes, crying over math assignments, and complaining about meals I cook them. But they also bring me light and lightness. Teddy and Pax, tow-headed as I once was, look the part of curl-crowned cherubs as they build blanket forts, chattering in spite of their seven-year age-gap. My daughters, olive-skinned and dark-lashed as my husband, have bronze streaks in their hair come August from long hours strolling beside me through Laramie’s parks and Vedauwoo’s granite formations; that sheen lasts like the prairie grasses’ gold through winter, buoying my spirits with the promise of summer’s restoration.

And nights, long after the sun drops behind the surrounding mountaintops, my husband, black-haired and suntanned, gleams in candlelight as we undress. B showed his heart in our first conversation with a story that made me laugh, even as I felt sad, for his middle-school self hazed during a cross-country team practice. His honesty and self-deprecation, his humor and gentleness shone a light into the depression I suffered midway through college. 

And twenty-five years on, he continues revealing himself in discussions about work stress, aging, and fears for our kids, but also wishes for a weeknight date, next year’s garden, and our eventual retirement. If I still hide from others, I unclothe myself for him because he sees the colors I gessoed over to make myself a blank. He gifts me red and pink roses, violet and sapphire lingerie—even a gold necklace for our first Christmas, which I still wear when I need a reminder I long ago escaped the rules laid down for me as a kid. 

*

The pleasures of adulthood are cerebral and fleeting: noting my toddler’s increasingly complex vocabulary as he badgers his way to another cookie; a half-smile from my oldest as she glides off to dance class; meals cooked, bills paid, loads of laundry put away; a poem sent off to an editor, who will likely reply, “No thanks.”

But a flash of yellow impels my soul toward joy. Teddy’s crown glows beneath the autumn sun as he tosses aspen leaves like confetti across our lawn, and the screaming tantrums and disrupted nights of his two-plus-year reign seem—for an instant—like nothing. My heart thumps, Love-ly, love-ly.

If I never karaoke or dance like no one’s watching, I can at least hum as I saunter to the park with Teddy’s hand in mine, the older kids running ahead. A lemon sweater snugs me against the breeze, gold leaves circle my feet, and forty-four doesn’t feel so old, really, to remember what my children already know as they spread over the playground like a fragmented rainbow in red, orange, blue, and violet coats: it’s better to wear our hearts on our sleeves.

Anemone Beaulier’s poetry and essays have been published by Cave Wall, Columbia Journal, Cumberland River Review, North American Review, The Pinch, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Rattle, Salamander, The Southern Review, and others. Originally from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, she lives in Laramie, Wyoming, with her husband and children.

19 February 2026