Purple was the freshly knit sweater my great grandmother had made for herself. She wore it all the time. Purple was in her eyes, gentle and wise. Purple was her smile, forever young and gentle. Purple was her posture, standing like royalty. Purple were her hands, talented and woven with stories in every crack. And purple was her favorite color, like mine.

Purple was the quilt she handmade for me on my 1st birthday. Purple was the pillow case with a bedtime prayer stitched on she made for me when I decided to become Christian like her. Purple was the necklace she gifted me when I was twelve. And purple was my face when I lost it, holding onto her waist as I cried but purple was her hug, warm and forgiving.

Purple was in the ceramic angels that hung in her apartment, protecting her sweet and gentle soul from the demons that dared to haunt her. But purple was her strength for no demon could ever touch her without being moved by her grace and seeking redemption. Purple was in the jewelry she wore in her days of youth. Purple was the cards she collected when she was younger, holding them close to give to her grandchildren on their birthdays. Purple was the bag she crafted with her talented and story-woven hands. And the bag was still purple when her daughter, my grandmother, passed it down to me.

Purple was in her words as she wove together stories from her past. Purple were me and my cousin’s faces as we laughed when she told us how she dropped a bag of ice on her future husband’s head when they first met. Purple was her spirit that was touched by everyone the second she stepped into the room, loving and known by everyone. Purple was in her homemade cooking, delicious and the cause of our bloating stomachs. Purple was her recipe book she wrote by hand. Purple was in her peanut butter cups that she knew I loved and would bring to every party. And I think I am creating purple as I struggle to perfect it when I make her recipes on my own.

Purple was in her words “I love you.” And purple was in mine as I repeated it back, unknowingly, for the last time.

Purple is the quilt she made for my 1st birthday that I sleep with every night. Purple is the prayer pillow case I rest my head on as I drift off to sleep. Purple is in the ceramic angels I collect now, smiling as I do so. Purple is in her recipes I attempt to remake, each pastry never the same as hers. Purple is in the jewelry from her days of youth I now wear during my own. Purple is in the cards she gave me every celebration. Purple is the bag she crafted with her talented and story-woven hands that I carry with me everywhere.

Purple was in her name, Willa Smith; it is all I see everywhere I go. And purple was her favorite color, like mine is now.