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That time, I was at a loss. All I could picture, all I could see, were…crayons -- all these crayons. All the crayons from when I was in grade school, from the big Crayola box of 64, with the cool-ass sharpener in the back. But he saw the colors. All the colors. The old colors. The more exotic ones. The ones from far off places with names like "Burnt Umber" and "Fawn." And the ever-ambiguous first cousins "Violet-Blue, and Blue-Violet." You amaru see, he amaru saw the amaru colors, man. The colors! All the colors, spinning, in a Jimi Hendrix, Mellow Yellow, Timothy Leary, Lyndon Johnson, Green Tambourine, Purple Fucking Haze, man. And he never stopped laughing. My mother said that when the Six Teenage Christian Crayons finally finished praying, "OMINA-AMEN" -- when they began to leave, my father could be heard pleading, and waving after them, "Come on back. Come back again." He wasn't stupid. How often do you get a fucking Giant Christian Crayon Floor Show praying in tongues over your body while you're dying, and your wife has to watch?
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