The Color Blue

The memory of the color blue can take me back to the mundane, and can also carry me into the deepest mysteries of life.

I remember first my brand new bicycle with shiny spokes and rims, a chrome spring to cushion the ride, white side walled tires and painted blue like the summer sky. I rode it around and around the block that Saturday morning, one of the happiest in my life. I remember our new blue Chrysler, purchased from uncle Carl, driving it out of his garage and down Mill Street where it stalled after going through a puddle, the spark plugs too wet to fire. And loading it with six bicycles, camping equipment for a weekend, six humans and a dog, all for a short ride on the Elroy trail after assembling and disassembling at both ends of the trip.

But blue has deeper meaning. I am filled with awe and wonder even during these sunlit days when I look up at the sky, brushed with white clouds, the golden earth and the pale blue heaven. I remember the campfires with the pale moon shining in the dark blue sky, walking into the darkness of the night and marveling at the twinkling jewels unfathomable distances away, the mystery of space. I remember the gray blue mountains of water as we crossed the ocean going to war, sensing the depth, the mystery of mammoth and strange sea monsters. I remember the blue eyes of a pretty young girl looking deeply into mine as she applied my makeup for our comic routine, the blue eyes of Lloyd, my friend, as he peers unflinching into mine and we tentatively explore our friendship, the mystery of persons.