Red stains the paper, hemorrhaging through dark letters and seeping into the margin. Blood-splattered paragraphs show so many gaping wounds the page seems to bleed with fatal injuries.
Breathing deeply to calm my rising fear, I reach out unsteady hands to smooth and comfort the damaged paper. Focusing on a large discoloration near the top, my anxiety begins to wane as I recognize a scarlet happy face. The scratches across the words are not angry festers, but iodine-like guidance! While some deletions dig deep to root out bad punctuation that can infect, the sting of rejection is soothed as I recognize the truth of good grammar, which offers to cleanse and heal.
There are few things in this world that compare to the joy of being a grandmother. Though we live two provinces away so I don’t get much “gamma” time, I am thankful to live in an age of technology when I can see recent pictures and real-time video, and hear my grandson’s adorable voice.
The day before I became a grandma, I had a surgical procedure to remove cancer from my breast. Part of the procedure included needles of blue dye to locate lymph nodes. The dye eventually makes its way out of the body through urination.
The next morning Weston was born, and I was recovering at home. I had just returned to bed from the washroom when my son phoned to tell us “It’s a boy!”
Now, it was probably the drugs talking, but I think my response was “Yahoo! I’m celebrating by peeing blue!”
Today Weston is three years old.
Happy birthday, precious boy. We love you.
In the television series, Star Trek, a crew member usually wore a red shirt. When an away (from the ship) mission was organized to explore new worlds, watchers knew the unnamed character who wore the low-ranking uniform of the red shirt would likely be the one who died.
The red shirt, in literature, movies, and television, has become synonymous with the disposable character of a story line.