How odd … the childhood vignettes we recall. No rhyme or reason. He is purple.

Father always struck me as melancholic. He’d mouth sacraments - we’d faithfully echo. 

Gentle, deliberate and perpetually deep in thought.

The pensive, purple stole caught my eye … crucified with gold.  My virgin zeal, as I held the chalice, amethyst wine swirling around its cold edges. The heat as it stained my lips, tongue, throat.

My ire when forbidden a role in ritual, simply by virtue of my sex.

“You must linger in passive pews”.

And mute, violet eyes reflected in vestments which swept behind him like a bridal train, as incense burnt my eyes.