The Colors of Us

My name is Lena, and I am seven. I am the color of cinnamon. Mom says she could eat me up.

My mom’s the color of French toast. She’s an artist. Mom’s teaching me how to mix colors. She says that if I mix red, yellow, black, and white paints in the right combination, I will have the right brown for a picture of me. “The right brown? But Mom, brown is brown,” I say. “That’s not so,” Mom says. “There are lots of different shades of brown. Let’s take a walk. You’ll see.”