Perfect Blue
My daughter believes that there is only one perfect color for each and every thing on earth, he says.
Such as? she queries.
This apple, he replies as he draws one from his satchel. This yellow is the perfect color for an apple. He proffers it to her. She accepts and murmurs her thanks.
And this sky, he continues, sweeping his hand in a wide arc. This blue, he says, is the perfect color for the sky.
She follows his movement across the horizon. Not red or green or orange or yellow? she asks.
No. He laughs, lowers his hand. I had asked my daughter the same question but she insists that she's right. He laughs again. My daughter is very stubborn.
She joins him. But, she says once they stop, perhaps what your daughter says is true. She tilts her head back to face the sky. Her curls kiss the park bench.
He does the same. Together, they study the sky and trail the clouds, thoughtfully and gravely, oblivious to the shouts of children, the bark of dogs, the chime of bicycle bells.
Can you imagine the sky any other color but this? she finally says.
The sky at dawn, the sky at sunset, he counts off.
Imperfect colors, she decrees. The sky at dawn, the sky at sunset, she repeats. The colors of birth, the colors of death. The colors of beginning, the colors of end. Uncertain, changeable, and sad, she concludes. But this, she says, pointing up. Her hand touches the sky. This is sure and serene.
He studies the sky again, the blue edging the rooftops, the trees, her hand. Yes, you're right, he concedes at last. You're both right. It is the perfect color.