Bluberry

My journal was blue. It was soft and felt like velvet.

My mood was grey, it was hard and felt like urchin prickles with a side of gravy. 


“Her dress was supposed to be blue” the man said.

“But it was orange” the woman replied.

“They got em all mixed up up” he laughed.

“So aunt Berry got an orange gown!” she cackled.

“Aunt Berry got an orange gown!” he guffawed.

I put a couple of numbers together.

I deduced that aunt Berry died.

I deduced that the funeral home gave her the wrong dress.

I wondered if aunt Berry was turning over in her grave.

Maybe aunt Berry wanted a blueberry colored gown for her viewing.

Maybe the other lady wanted an orange one.

What if the other lady was called aunt Sherbet.

Would that be ironic, or just sad?

I couldn’t decide, but now I wanted blueberry pie to go with my blueberry journal entry. I wished I’d had a berry dessert to offer them.