6

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Dear Blue

This book is intended for teenager girls who have suffered a lose.

BLURB: My memory is tainted by colours of you.

Dear Blue,

I'll always think of it as your colour.

The reasons for which seem simple, and small, and serious. It was the colour of your eyes and that streak you put in your hair. You wore it often and you wore it well. It was also hidden in you, in the tones of your cello and the music of your voice.

It was the colour of the big, old towel we used as a picnic blanket. And of the tears that landed on it.  It was the colour of the sand at night, as it spread out before us on the beach and crept into our clothes and in-between our toes. The waves when I woke up that morning sparkled with it in the moments before the sun started to rise. Those waves were fierce, brave and ultimately fragile as they crashed against the rocks.

It's the colour that coats the world if you open eyes that have been closed for too long. Like how everything now, in my eyes, is tinted by thoughts of you. 

The feathers of the bird on your birthday card. The petals of the forget-me-nots that grew along the road we cycled down. The colour of your birth stone. And mine, even though there are two months nestled between our birthdays. Your bike and ribbon you wrapped into my hair.  The varnish I wore on my nails when we went to your sister's wedding. The bridemaids' dresses. The bouquet that she threw too far and went into the sea. Your tie that day.  The logo on your wet-suit. The colour of your lips after being in the water too long. The ink that covered a once plain notebook-marked by you.

So much time has gone by since then. So much has happened to me. Yet that's still your colour.  Your deep, fierce, sad, brave, beautiful colour. I later learned that it's the easiest colour for people to see. Maybe that's why thoughts of you come to me so sudden and so frequently. That's certainly the reason why all other colours fade away at night, leaving only shades of your colour. It's all the pale, dim light of the moon can show us. It's only reflecting the light of the sun and-like my fondest memories of you-loses the warmth that it once held.

They forecast a storm the day I met you. I wish they had been right. The swirling mass overhead might have been an omen of the pain that was coming to me. But it wasn't enough to keep me from going out, from seeing you and becoming trapped in a cage made up by thoughts of you. 

No. 

I don't wish that. I wish that day had been longer. I wish I had gone out more to see you. I wish I had told you sooner. I wish that I had skipped that holiday you couldn't go on. I wish you hadn't gone swimming that day. I wish I hadn't gone to see what the commotion was. I wish that I hadn't remarked on what a beautiful day it was. I wish I had kept that towel, and that card, and a million others thing. I wish I could remember more. Most of all...I wish I had gotten to keep you.

It should have been the colour of the sky the day we met. 

And not the day you left. 



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