The Color Blue, and Memories of You

I think Paris has made me fall in love with the color blue.

Not every shade--some types of blue are far too serious, far too melancholy. But this blue, light, airy, painted on half of the doors I see here--this blue is comforting, uplifting, peaceful even. A blue I could swim in, the color of eyes. It comforts me, guides me through narrow, unfamiliar streets. Takes me through alleys of beautiful buildings, ones that move me; landscapes I don't know but that feel like home, like I've walked through them hundreds of times.

The blue reminds me of something, though I don't know what exactly. Maybe it's the same color of my brother's childhood bedroom, the one I immersed myself in, made my own when the world was too much, too heavy, a place where I was safe. Maybe it's the color of my nephew's eyes when he was first born, two pounds and twelve weeks early and fiercely determined to cling on to life, whatever it might bring. Maybe it's the color of the robin's eggs that I found in my grandparents' yard all those years ago, when I was a child, when I was unaware that living in that house was more of a necessity than a two-year long vacation.

Maybe it is the color of my grandma's shirt, the one she always wore, the shade as gentle and nurturing as she was. I think back to when she passed, when we collected her belongings, when my grief was too immense to stomach looking at what she left behind.

I look back, and I wish I had looked for that shirt, had cradled it close to me, had made it my own. I don't know where it is now--I don't know, with complete surety, if it ever existed or if it's just a strange impact, a side effect, of my lingering longing for her, a craving to keep her close to me, to never forget the person she was. A coping mechanism my mind has created, invented from nothing but the dust of their old house and the memories buried there.

Her and my grandfather came to Paris, once; I wonder if she felt the same way I feel, if she walked in the same places I have, if any of my steps match hers. I wish I had thought to ask her.

I berate myself, often, about my inability to keep the topic of love out of my writing. But it comes most naturally to me--it consumes me, makes me fall in love with the emotion itself. I think about it, in some way, constantly. Even when I feel nothing but hate, I cannot help thinking that it comes from love.

The cobblestone, my aching feet, my unsteady legs, the way each stone matched the path I used to take through her yard. I'd give anything to walk that path once more.

The gates here are littered with locks, the clear sign of a love immortalized. The way we would climb her gate, pull one another up and over, traipse through the woods in the back of their house until we finally reached the playground. The silly games we played, our grandma scolding us without scorn when we returned. I would collapse into her arms; when she held me, everything was simple.

I haven't been to that playground in years, don't know if I'll ever regain the desire to return. It would be an attempt to recreate something lost long ago. No matter how intensely I feel love, I think, I feel grief even stronger.

Walking down that cobblestone, longing for her, the way she held my hand, gasped out my name the last time I saw her. I told her I loved her and left swiftly, exited to their backyard that now seemed dull, pointless, lifeless. I remember my relatives crying, the way they all went in, one-by-one, to say their goodbyes, lining up for a kind of execution that kills you and forces you to live with it.

I hate seeing that house; hate seeing it because I loved it once, because it was my home and never will be again. I hate that the family that lives there now doesn't know what once existed in that space, doesn't know the spot where, one summer, she passed. I hate that they can happily love that home when I never can again.

My friend kissed my cheek today, leaving behind an imprint of their lipstick, which they blended into my blush with their fingertip. I still have one of my grandmother's lipsticks, I think. The tube is buried somewhere where I won't have to think about it too much. I don't open it; still, I know the smell of it, the exact color of her lips when she wore it, how much is left in the tube. I will never use it. I will never get rid of it.

In the back of my mind, I have a distant memory of her placing the lipstick in my hand, giving it to me as a gift, the elation and excitement I felt. My first lipstick. I apply it messily to my mouth. I kiss her on the cheek. It leaves a stain. I blend it into her blush, and hold her hand.