Blue skies shining on me . . . talkin’ ‘bout blue skies . . .
Blue grass band playing on the radidio – fiddles and banjos and nasal twangs
Kentucky Blue Grass growing in my yard – fodder to many a well-born racer
Blue eyes crying in the rain – good ole Willy Nelson
(Thirty)two year old singing along with the Veggie Tales: I’m so blue-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo
All these terms went through my head along with blue bonnets, blueberries, blue bird. None of them quite fit with what my spouse of umpteen hundred years had just declared about me.
“You’re just blue, baby. Snap out of it. Come play with me on the four-wheeler.”
“I’m NOT blue! I’m ticked at the world! It can’t be fixed with your gap-toothed smile and a ride through the woods. I swear you men think you have all the answers. Can’t a gal be well and truly upset with the hand she’s been dealt? Can’t you understand I don’t want to be here in this room with you – in this place – alive?”
Letha broke down and Mike knew how she hated to be seen crying.
“Okay, baby, okay. I’m going out for a ride to let you have some time. I’ll be back later. I love you.”
Letha stared at the back of the one man she had loved since¬ she was 12 years old. She loved that he knew she would be okay eventually. This happened every year on the anniversary of Mikey’s death. He’d been a perfect baby. Everything about him – fingers, toes, hair . . . everything except the one thing that would have let him stay with her: he was not breathing. “Cord accident” is what they called it.
Loss. Pain. Grief.
Postpartum blues was diagnosed by her doctor. Only it never, ever went away. She needed time to wallow in her grief, deal with the pain one more time, get on with her life – in HER time.
Yeah, that’s what she’d do. She’d get right on that.
Written for the Trifecta week 32 challenge: Blue using the third definition from Merriam Webster.