I am not red but some think that we are related. I have been stronger than the pale knitted booties she wore as a newborn but softer than the blush she brushed gently on her cheeks.

I have been intense like the cherry lipstick she wore on her wedding day but most often I am like the smell of the roses in her bouquet. Some have called me salmon but she didn’t like fish and would choose the strawberries instead. I felt angry when the Australian sun scorched her English complexion and sad when the crimson skin faded and peeled.

I was sometimes rusty like the car she drove across the Nullabor desert and everything was dirty and dusty for a while. I was her flaming hair for a bit but the attempt to hide the years was hard work.

I could feel the energy in her bright pink hospital gown and for a while I helped her to fire up and fight but it didn’t last and at the end her skin looked sallow next to me. Now I am the fragile petals that fall from her wreath, just a memory of her favourite colour and her life.

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