Green Is the Color of My Eyes
I could introduce a color. Something bright and bold. I choose black. And white. Black is the color of electrical parts in my father’s shop. White is the color of inventory boxes. I worked in a warehouse at age 7. No, I was not a victim of child labor. The place: Austin, Texas. We were an immigrant family. That fact is important. Black is the color of Sharpie pens. I write part numbers on white labels. We sell circuit breakers. Sell it, sell it, sell it, my father chanted. I heard: salad salad salad.