Feeling Blue, by Barbara Fuller

Inspired by Liliana Sâmbotin's Gate of Blossoms

Its beauty caught my eye immediately. I had been walking for a while through a historical, walled neighborhood looking for just the right color. I would often drive the few miles away, sometimes, just to walk my dog and admire the old landscapes. Jacarandas and crape myrtle dotted the sidewalks. Ferns and fuchsias brushed together below them making rhythm as we walked. My house was a fixer-upper, and I had spent everything I’d had to buy it. Resources were limited for updating anything costing even the smallest amount of money. I knew that painting my front door was an affordable way to give this new love a boost.

Despite being a bit worn, this door in the brick wall still radiated, embraced by a dripping wisteria. Deciding to take a picture, I held up my cell phone, about to point and press. The door began to open. My face began to blush.

An old man was standing there looking back at me. I continued to watch him through my phone screen. I hesitated for a few seconds before bringing it down. “Hello,” I said, “I’m Sorry; I was just trying to help to remember this beautiful color. It’s lovely. Do you happen to know the brand and name of the paint?” He continued to stare, saying nothing. My face continued its journey to turning crimson. I recognized and knew well the feeling without needing a mirror. Like a bad friend, it had always given me away.

It felt like an entire minute before he spoke. “I don’t know the name. My wife painted it.” I knew it was rude to take the shot, but I was desperate to know the name. I lived two towns over and felt it far enough away to avoid looking repeated in the neighborhood. I am a hypocrite. I detest a copycat, but it came in handy this time. I glanced at the color again. Memories flashed through my head.

I am a child at the beach in Mexico with my family. My brother is standing next to me on a cliff. We held hard to the rail, both of us looking down at the ominous waves swirling against the cliff rocks. It was magnificent! This aqua blue color, and everything accompanying it, I had never experienced before. It floated me away. The briny air and relentless cacophony of the waves was magical to this 9-year-old. My brother, soon bored, walked away. I stayed until summoned by my parents. I couldn’t stop looking below into the sea at those jewel-like tones of blue, watching it vary in richness with the changing depths, at once shifting this mystical color from the blues of midnight to the blues of daylight.

“Is she around? Maybe I can ask her about it?” I pushed.

“Well, she sure was the gussy-upper around here! My job was just to bring home the bacon!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. “No. She isn’t here. She passed away last September. Give me a minute. I’ll go and poke around the garage a bit and see if I can find the can.” My heart sank for him. “Oh no! That’s okay.” I started, but the back of his grey head was long heading away from me. I stood awkwardly staring at the vacant threshold, feeling ashamed.

The memory with my brother was stirring in the undercurrent of my thoughts. He, too, had since passed, and with time I found my memories of him returned more and more often. I started to weep but pushed the tears back with the approaching footsteps. The old man reached out his weathered hand which held the can with the paint I’d wanted. Even the long-dried drips in a frozen fall still shone sapphire. At his suggestion, I took a shot of the text on the can.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that. It means a lot to me.” With relief, I felt the blush starting to fade. He looked through me for a few seconds with recognition.

“It means a lot to me, too. Have a good day.” He looked at me and with a knowing wink and a thoughtful smile, he closed the door.