My favorite color has always been blue, though green stands closely behind in second.  The coffee cup that Trudy MacDonald Aldridge gave me has glaze in shades of blue and perfectly fits my hand.  The blue bowl she made stands at the center of the table filled with pearly shells and rough coral.  Though most of my house decorations have shades of brown, orange and green, the three prints above my old music cabinet show a steely sky and its gradual brightening to pale blue as the dawn breaks.

This morning’s sky outside my window spans forever in crystalline azure.  I strain to see it above the neighbors’ house.  I open the front door and go out onto the deck and raise my face to the air, to the winking eye of the sun and the caress of the breeze.  I don’t know why we call our sorrow “the blues”.  I wrap myself in the color and feel serene.  We painted my bedroom the color of cornflowers when I was in high school and I’ve never slept better than I did within those calming walls.

Perhaps I’m twisted, finding comfort in something that others use to symbolize their pain.  Girl in blue, I am; and always will be.  I see nothing wrong with that.  It suits me, this color, like few others, matching my eyes.

And from my blue eyes, I see the world.