The Indigo of Winter

Leo knew blue. Not just saw it, he tasted it. A deep, resonant thrum on his tongue, shifting with every shade. The faded denim of Dad’s work jacket, that was a metallic sort of tang, like old coins left out in the rain. The clear, sharp blue of a winter sky, that was cool water, quick and clean. But then there was *her* blue. Grandma’s blue. It was everywhere this Christmas, a year after she’d gone, clinging to everything and nothing.

His mother, Sarah, tried to make it a normal Christmas. The tree stood fat and glittering in the living room, carols playing low, too low to really hear. She moved with a brittle cheer, her smile a little too tight at the corners, like a ribbon pulled too hard. His dad, Mark, sat in his armchair, a newspaper open, but his eyes weren't really reading. They just stared, past the words, into some faraway place Leo couldn't touch. The air in the house, usually so warm with Grandma’s baking, now held a cool, stiff edge.

The ornament, a ceramic angel with wings painted a soft robin’s egg blue, hung low on a branch. Leo reached for it. His fingers brushed the cool clay, and instantly, a taste bloomed in his mouth. Sweet, like sugared almonds, but with a surprising undercurrent of something dry, dusty. Like old paper. He remembered Grandma’s hands, always smelling faintly of lotion and the faint, sweet dust from her art supplies. This specific blue, that was it.

He remembered her sitting at the kitchen table, her blue wool scarf wrapped around her neck even indoors, sketching. He’d bring her his drawings – rockets, monsters, silly stick figures – and she’d look at them with serious consideration. "Oh, Leo," she’d say, her voice soft like old flannel. "This yellow… I taste sunshine. And this green, like fresh-cut grass." He’d try to taste them too, but only *her* blue ever truly came through, a comforting, slightly worn indigo that felt like a hug.

"Mom," he mumbled, the taste still coating his tongue. "This blue, it tastes like Grandma’s hands." Sarah paused from untangling a string of lights, her brow furrowed. She glanced at the ornament, then back at him, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name in her eyes. Pity? Frustration? "Oh, honey," she said, her voice a little too loud, a little too quick. "That's just your imagination running wild. Let's get these lights working, okay?" He nodded, the taste turning a little bitter, a lonely blue.

Dinner was a clatter of forks and nervous laughter. Aunt Carol talked about her new poodle, Uncle Frank grumbled about traffic, and his cousins squabbled over the last potato roll. The gravy, a rich, meaty brown, tasted vaguely metallic, like iron. The cranberries, vibrant red, tasted sharp, almost painful. But it was the blue of the fine china plates, a pale, almost invisible rim, that settled in his mouth. A taste of distant politeness, of things unsaid. Of an empty seat at the head of the table.

His dad cleared his throat, pushing his plate back. "Good meal, Sarah." His voice was flat, careful. He didn't look at anyone directly. Mark just got up, went to the living room, and sat down in front of the TV, the sound low. The blue of his silence, Leo realized, tasted like a locked door. Heavy. Unyielding. A blue that made his own throat tight.

Later, when everyone was absorbed in a holiday movie, Leo slipped away. He went into Grandma’s old room. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight from the window. Her scent, faint now, still hung in the air – lavender and old books. On her dresser, still carefully folded, was her blue wool scarf. The indigo one she’d always worn.

He picked it up. It felt rough and soft at the same time, familiar. He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply. And then it was there, overwhelming, undeniable. The taste of *her* blue. Not dusty paper, not sugared almonds. This blue was warm, like sun-baked earth, and sweet, like honeysuckle after a summer rain. But underneath it, a profound ache, a salty, wet edge that made his eyes sting. It tasted like every single memory, every laugh, every quiet moment, all wrapped up in the shape of missing her.

He heard footsteps. Sarah stood in the doorway, her shoulders slumped. Her eyes found him, found the scarf. She didn't say anything about the taste, didn't ask what he was doing. She just walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled him gently against her side. Her own sweater, a dull grey, tasted of laundered cotton and tired sighs, but it felt solid, real. He rested his head on her shoulder, the indigo scarf still clutched in his hand, its complex taste still alive and humming on his tongue.