[sense of place]
THE COLOR OF FREEDOM By Carol Kapaun Ratchenski
My two-year-old son died with Purple Passionflower polish on his toes and fingernails. As soon as he could ask for something, at six months, pointing and grunting his intentions for food, drink, me, and dazzle on his toes, I painted him to match me. Not a daughter, but this at least we had in common early on, and it made me sigh with joy to greet him in the middle of the night, his Sunset Orange fingers held my breast to his mouth as his Firefly Red toes danced with satisfaction against my still-swollen stomach. Once, a colleague of my husband’s laughed when he saw our sons and their Neon Punk Pink toes, made some homophobic joke that no one laughed at. The next day, my husband painted his own toes Deeply Madly Maroon and took his socks off at work and I knew I would never leave him in this lifetime. After my son’s last breath, my husband asked me if I was going to take off the polish before we carried his body to our van and then into the local funeral home. Off his fingers, not his toes. I would not take that much of his dignity away in death. His life meant something, and some days, freedom needs all its champions shouting at once. l
CAROL KAPAUN RATCHENSKI is a poet and fiction writer and mental health counselor. She lives in Fargo and is the owner-operator of Center for Compassion and Creativity. Her work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, NDSU Magazine, Red Weather, Gypsy Cab, and other publications. Her book A Beautiful Hell was published in 2016 by New Rivers Press.
Some days, freedom needs all its champions shouting at once. 24
