Blue.

Blue.
The color outside at dusk, because it is winter, and we are in Poland, and there is a lot of snow.
Blue. My mother’s face, body, as her blood pressure drops so low she passes out and the doctors swarm around her.
Blue. My father’s eyes wide open in panic as he runs from floor to floor in the hospital, looking for her.
She will be fine, and I will be born, and I will be wrapped in a blue blanket.
Blue. The warm stockings I wear, crawling around the house. When my dad comes home from work I wrap myself around his leg and won’t let go. He always takes this opportunity to bring me to the kitchen so I eat. He laughs when he tells me this story, years later.
Blue. The puffy coat my dad buys me in the US. He remembers the exact store and day when the shipment came in early. A perfect coat for those cold winters. I have a picture of me wearing it, everything around me white in snow.
Blue. The lightest sky blue eyes of my father. Mine are darker, sometimes almost gray.
My father’s blue eyes–the way he would still look at my mother, some 37 years after they first met.
He squeezed my hand and asked, everything’s ok?
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. And we looked straight into each other’s eyes and we knew we were saying so much more.
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3 Comments Add yours

  1. Beautiful! Your words made me think of an E.E. Cummings poem: “I thank You God for most this amazing/ day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees/ and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything/ which is natural which is infinite which is yes.”

    Like

    1. I love that poem–thanks for sharing!

      Liked by 1 person

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