Tuesday, June 11, 2013


A man nods off on a bench on the Promenade. Hair so dirty its color is undeterminable. Fingers almost black except for the index and middle fingers of his right hand, which are nearly orange with nicotine. Jeans so dirty the grime melts into the warp and woof of the denim.

Yet the man is wearing blue hand-tooled cowboy boots and a baseball cap to match.  Not baby blue. Azure. The color of the sky on a cloudless day with butterflies dancing in a warm breeze and Grandma waiting on the front porch with cherry snow cones. The sky above picnics and kites and dogs catching Frisbees. The sky in a world where no one drugs himself to escape the pain of living.

Just yesterday I stood beneath a tree while thousands of blossoms rained down. Stood like a statue, hearing and seeing and feeling them fall.

It's a long way down when you're blue.


The Geezers said...

Simply wonderful eye for the key details, as always. How is it, I wonder, that "blue" came to be synonymous with "melancholy." In most connotations, it creates the opposite sensation.

Deb Shucka said...

Hey Jerri! Checking in after some time away, and absolutely delighted to find your small and powerful stories here. It's made my day. Hope you're doing well.