Hridith Sudev

Blue

Somewhere north of ultramarine, a little west of cyan; there is a blue that I will never forget. A blue like a robin’s egg. Or that salwar I wore on Eid, my junior year. The bright blue of that portentous New York sky; sprayed with grey puffs like the streaks in my Abbu’s eyes. Puffs that, they said, stole America’s innocence. But what no one talked about, was how it also stole mine.