Rain spills off the asphalt in front of our house and into the canal, drenching the last red tulips, soaking the grass, giving life to the leaves spiraling out of black cherry limbs beside my window.

I think of my favorite things, and I think of red. Red, in all its splashes of joy.

I love so many things that are red.

The tulips with black and yellow bellies, still rising in cold corners of our yard.

The barstools tucked under our kitchen counter, waiting for children to come home from school.

New rain boots, knee-high, so I can wade into the canal in search of kids who’ve explored too far.

A paper heart cut of construction paper on a good day that says in Gordon’s kindergarten scrawl, “you ar the best mom evr. I love you wen you giv me hugs.”

Our Kitchen Aid mixer that easily handles a double batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Spencer’s cheeks, while jumping on the trampoline after dinner. Cold rain wisping out of the canyon behind him, and he is loving every minute.

Patchwork quilt on our bed, red stripes fading, cotton thinning. A gift from Doug on my first Mother’s Day, baby Eliza about to be born.

My favorite toenail polish. My favorite lipstick. Plum brandy to be precise.

Red vine licorice. My favorite movie treat, hidden on the top shelf of a cupboard and sealed in a ziplock to stay soft.

The fire hydrant in front of my childhood home, where I would perch and watch for visitors. My earliest recollection of feeling the Spirit, age 4. I was sitting on the fire hydrant, waiting  for my grandparents to arrive, when I was suddenly filled with a gigantic love for my family. For my Dad specifically, my father on earth. Then I felt love from my Father in Heaven. Big and expansive. So much it made me cry.  It was the first time I remember feeling known.

The color of the sky on a spring evening, sweet light falling across the mountains, as I watch Doug and the kids play outside. They chase and shout and laugh.

Anger, as it flushes my face, when I hear Ali screaming because Gordon wrenched her fingers way back and Spencer sprayed hairspray all over the bathroom walls.

My parents’ car, as I watch my Mom struggle to get in, my Dad hefting her body from behind with a gait belt, sliding her left leg in, followed by the right. The way she grips his hand, sighs heavy, then laughs at the circus of it, and I lean in and hug her hard.

The cover of the book next to my bed. Scott Peck’s, The Road Less Traveled. Which begins with this truth: “Life is difficult… Once we truly know that life is difficult — once we truly understand and accept it — then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters.” And I realize I’ve done my share of moaning, noisily and subtly, as if life in general were easy, should  be easy.

Red. It is everywhere right now. In the blood of people I care for. In the small things that make life happy. In the great atmosphere that covers mother earth. In the emotions of frustration and love and living.

Right now, red is my favorite color.

What’s yours?