Stains of a Summer Afternoon

I keep a small, white linen handkerchief tucked inside a hollowed-out book, stained permanently with the faint, dusty residue of crushed dried flowers from a garden that no longer exists. It is a useless thing, really—too fragile to be used, too stained to be clean—but it holds the weight of a season when time felt infinite. We spend our lives trying to scrub away the marks that experience leaves upon us, forgetting that these smudges are the only proof that we were ever truly present. To be stained is to have participated in the mess of living, to have allowed the world to touch us deeply enough to leave a trace. We are not meant to remain pristine; we are meant to be colored by the people we meet and the chaos we invite into our quiet rooms. When we finally fold ourselves away, what will remain of our brightness? Will we be remembered for the things we kept tidy, or for the vibrant, indelible marks we left behind on the air?

Arif Hossain Sayeed has captured this beautiful, chaotic energy in his image titled Holi Kids. It reminds me that the most honest parts of ourselves are often the ones we cannot wash away. Does this burst of color stir a memory of a time you were allowed to be perfectly, wonderfully messy?