Seeing Blue
Days have collected in moments of blue.
When I was five years old, blue was denim overalls covered in my Grandmother’s oil paints. A tired kind of blue. They fit like I was riding in a hot air balloon. It was hot and it was July. The undersides of my fingernails were stained. Crusted with thick paint.
Blue was the copper on the statue in their front yard. The one of the little boy playing with the frog on the Lilly pad. The top of his head was kissed from the rain and the sun. A blue that looked kind of green. To me it was just blue.
The insides of the seashells my dad and I would pick up at Ponto Beach were pearl-like. On clear days, the sky would reflect in the cavity an iridescent blue. We’d drop the shells in a glass milk jug in the garage. Sometimes if the shells weren’t washed off enough the garage would reek like turned seafood. Cleaning the jar. Breath holding. Blue faced.
Blue like the algae bloom that rise from below the water’s surface in Fontana. Fuzzy bubbles. Little monsters. The smell of gasoline. Late August nights and the barking days of summer.
Blue like my mother’s eyes on her 60th birthday. Little spurts of saline swept from her cheeks. Joy tears, because love. Blue is the joy and the pain of getting older. The still water. Racing time. Endless contradiction. I beg time to stand still. And in my mother’s eyes, it slows. For a moment.
It’s the blue of crushed black raspberries on summer teeth. Acidic joy on gums and enamel. In Colorado, the dentist used to complain that his three-year-old daughter’s favorite food was blueberries. “Such a shame,” he would say. How could you? Despise the stains of summer.
It’s holding my Grandmother’s hand for the last time, like thick blue veins. They were purple and aged. Not knowing it’s the last time. Next to her, I look at my veins. Thin and light, like the gentle stroke of a ballpoint pen. Sensing it’s the last time. But I can’t sit with it. I gulp down purple tannins and cry by the water. Stained teeth. Crusty eyes.
There’s the sober blue of the ocean at the top of the Beacon’s parking lot. Smells of Sex Wax and seagulls in Encinitas. Calloused feet. Flinching off of the sand like hot coals. Slamming my stomach onto a board. And cold, blue saltwater. Naturally numbed.
Stitching together memories with paint. Phthalo blue is a hot blue I realize now, looking at my palette. Copper undertones. Sun pours through the blinds. Less strong. Less steep. Summer fading. I outline the puddles of light in oil and pigment. Boxes engulf me. I drop my plants off at Elisabeth’s house because I can’t bring them. Saying goodbye is blue. A really hot blue.
It’s blue hope. Of moving to Chicago. Learning to take care of oneself. Not quite sure about how. A longing kind of blue that doesn’t know what’s next. Of wondering. Of waiting. Of wanting. Blue like knowing. Deep fated blue. God-sent blue. And over time. Blue becomes you.
February 2025