That summer I was blue. Bluer than the ocean and the sky, than the paint that ran dry on the side of old cans. Bluer than the periwinkles and the wall in the kitchen. That summer I was not gray or green or violet, that summer I was blue. I was Summer Blue and that was my summer blue, my little summer blue. I’d keep it in my back pocket, tucked away safe in my blue jeans. Sometimes I’d put it away for a while in that silly little draw that serves no purpose other than a trash can for things that aren’t “bad enough” to throw away.
I remember the nights the most. Our hair was undone and our feet bare, that was the first time I ever thought about beauty and wondered if I was in fact beautiful. She was so beautiful sitting there, like a statue or a painting you only see once a year. We didn’t talk often, just thought, so I got to thinking. I imagined I never had another life, another family. I grew from the garden in my dreams, like the carrots and the green beans we’d use to make salads. I sprouted as tall as she and together we lived in that little corner of the world, forever. I knew they’d find my one day. I knew my hair was growing back and knew there were pictures hanging up further than my legs could take me, but I didn’t want to go. I stayed rooted there, strong with love and an overwhelming sense of home.
I feel blue now, but not the summer kind of blue, the lonely kind of blue. The kind of blue that invites itself in when the rain is too much, but your kitchen table’s only set for one. The kind of blue that lingers too long in places only meant for your heart. The kind of blue that fogs up bathroom mirrors until the person looking back isn’t you. The thing is I was wasn’t me, I will always be Summer Blue.
-Excerpts from a book I’ll someday finish