A more vibrant love had never existed. On the streets of our city, people linked arms to spin around like aimless butterflies. Pride flags soared from every lamppost causing a rainbow glow to shine over us all. Many were wrapped around shoulders, tugged as close to the heart as possible. Above all, a colourful beauty filled the once hateful place. One of sparks of honey-yellow mixed with sage or purple-pink polka dots. One of hope that seemed to fill the chests of every youth. One of peace for the elderly that seemed to settle their once rattled nerves, knowing that they had crafted a bright future out of a shadowed past. A dash of adoration flooded the roads too: for one another, for each other, for a returning faith in humanity.
My steps struggled to grace the world with ease, as I slided through the crowds of parade-goers. I barely allowed five seconds to pass before gazing beyond my shoulder, praying that no recognised faces would appear. In my paint-speckled jeans beneath a Love Is Love top, my appearance wasn't as majestic as many of the glittering queens passing. Not close to matching the shimmering dots speckling one guy's face, or as perfect as the makeup worn by all genders. Yet I fitted perfectly, I felt that quite sufficiently. At only seventeen, I'd shown-up to the march alone clutching a placard made out of a delivery box. Yet other girls my age passed, giving light waves instead of up-and-down, judging glances. On that day, I felt as free as a traveling ladybird. Little shame pounded within my brain, only the remaining flecks of a long-lost sermon. For once, I was guiltless which equated to weightlessess.
As the millions of figures – or so I believed – started to walk along, my footsteps began to quicken with confidence. A bit of chanting started over speakers blasting radio hits, intertwined with bliss and laughter and all that gorgeous stuff. Many smiles reached my face, lifting my own to a toothy result. As my eyes glimmered with awe, I watched old buildings pass as we reached modern land. The sun draped a tangerine flash over the world, highlighting halves of faces to show freckles, kisses and boys with boys or girls with girls. People with people.
In a blur of moments, I floated around different friend groups to get a taste of all sorts of people. One woman painted a pride flag on my cheek, dragging out the strokes of her brush with crimsons, aquamarines and honey. My toes spun on coarse ground as a fella grasped my hand, requiring a partner for his crazed dance. As the music echoed through my veins, I sang along to every anthem as loudly as my lungs could handle. A blend of flowery perfumes, thick deodorant and everlasting hope entered my lungs.
Local bands strummed their electric guitars, people shrieked upon seeing a certain artist on a wide stage. On the other side of the city, stalls were arranged to provide support leaflets along with merchandise. One gifted me a little pronoun badge, another offered support for the whole process of Coming Out. Maybe I wasn't prepared to express my feelings to all the world – my private love that I wished to keep confined inside my chest – yet I felt at home within my heart. My soul felt complete, even thankful existing alongside my skin. My love was not something of fear but musical joy, cheering and paintings too elegant to be understood by all. It was mine, and for once that was okay.
After the events ended, I walked home with a love-drunk stumble. A permanent smile rested on my mouth, scrunching up my nose and refusing to leave. As I passed an oil-stenching factory, nearly tripping over the path, I spotted a young boy. Barely a teenager, facing the transparent window of a closed office. A similar rainbow was painted onto his cheek yet his face did not glow with such pride.
He observed his reflection in the glass, before lifting a clenched fist to his face. The boy roughly smudged the facepaint, rubbing with a trembling determination that sent shivers down my spine. As the vibrance faded, he shed a salted tear that caused the colourful rivers to drip off his jaw.
His face shifted, allowing our eyes to meet. The gleaming glance may forever haunt me, full of sorrow yet such a longing – radiating from his position across the road – for love. To be permitted to love. While he maintained his saddened look, I offered him a smile. One that said a dozen more words than I could, and possibly than I ever will.
One that told him to be proud, regardless. To look at the shining sun each morning and, through every step underneath each ray, be thrilled to be born exactly as he is. To catch every rainbow in the sky on a rain-scented day, and feel a true acceptance within himself.
To know that a vibrant love will exist for him, too.
