By Samuel Weitzman
Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.
Navy, sky, baby, royal, sea.
My life is a blue one. The other colors, the other shades and textures all soon collapse.
Her eyes were blue. Sapphire stars full of love, yet still managing to hint at the melancholy that laid in her heart.
Her dress that one night was blue, blue like the sky on a warm July day, the cotton balls of clouds being herded by a breeze that was a breath of coolness. I remember sitting there on the roof of the car with her, holding her. That’s all we did. Just sit there.
She preferred pens with blue ink. I remember that well. She would always say, “Sam, black ink is too serious.” I remember going shopping with her for blue pens, finding the perfect utensil for her.
Today, as I walked down the halls aimlessly, I found the blue. I grabbed its essence and pressed it to my heart as it murmured “Sam… Sam… Sam…” When I got home, I put the spirits into a charcoal drawing for safekeeping.
I remember an art class once. The teacher was rambling about Picasso. “Picasso,” he said at one point, “was immensely saddened by the death of a friend. As a result, he entered a stage called the Blue Period, where his paintings were predominately blue.”
Today, that statement is a knife in my gut, a hole that draws the blue blood of mourning from me to the ground, draining essence from my spirit.
I still remember when I got the call. The soft words, the shouts of “No! No!” and the denials. But the writing was on the wall, plastered in cobalt hues. The last hand had been played, and fate had a straight flush.
The balloons in the hospital were blue, too. I can recall the hushed voices in the backround. “…no one survives a crash that severe, even considering that she was wearing a seatbelt.”
“Sir, the bottom line is that she hasn’t got much time left.”
There was a pause. Then, “Let the boy be. Give him some time alone with her.”
I wore a black suit and a blue tie to the funeral. The flowers were blue, naturally, and so was the mood of the procession.
I didn’t cry. Instead, I simply closed my eyes and tried to reimagine her perfume, reimagine her laugh, reimagine her eyes.
I stood there after everyone else had left. I kneeled down and placed the flowers on the grave. “Goodbye, Katherine,” I whispered. I stood up, and made my way back to the car.