It's All Pink.

I like Pink.

It's girly and soft and bright. And dark and sharp and heavy. It's joyful. It's miserable. It is hated. It is loved.

Pink happens.

In the the span of five days there has been fear so deep that usually strong legs gave, and a body that has stood through many storms crumpled.  In the midst of that fear an unknown strength picked that body up, forced one foot in front of the other, stretched a mouth into a smile and put a voice in a throat. That body happily greeted dancers, talked to friends, gave tours, cleaned studios, enjoyed music. And in the privacy of its own space, that same body crumpled again.

Pink.

In the span of five days there has been elation so palpable that strong legs ran up stairs, danced on coffee tables, jumped on beds, and jogged through parks. A body experienced movement, hands created, arms hugged. A heart leapt with joy and cheeks ached from smiling. An unknown strength pushed away the fear and replaced it with a joy that was utterly complete.

Pink.

In the span of five days a girl has been surrounded by love. Friends that were clueless called, discussed, laughed, asked, borrowed, lent. Friends that knew drove, shopped, ate, smiled, advised, offered, didn't ask and didn't judge. They held on. Until it was time to let go.

And so to everyone, all that knew and didn't. Laughed and hugged. Danced and watched. Talked and listened.

Thanks.

You've been pinked.