The thing is, I remember those edible crayons, broad, flat, aromatic, and the rough paper we were given on which to make our marks, a kind of cross between sewing remnants and my mother’s dish towels. But even more clearly than this, I remember the first time I made a purple sky, not knowing it was purple, until its purplicity was pointed out to me by my drawing partner, a cheerful little boy whose name escapes me at the moment. I thought the sky was blue, but the truth is, I was less concerned with the so-called proper naming of colors, than with their temperature, sound, and other miraculous properties. For instance, if I were to say the little boy’s skin was brown, and leave it at that, I would be committing a crime against its sweaty-cumin scent, which somehow told stories about the sun. And so it goes. And so the purple sky lives on.