I remember it in the bathroom. The color blue, I mean.
It's not a royal blue. It's not a navy blue. It's definitely not a BYU blue. It's a white-filled blue, a light-filled blue. To me, it is calm.
I remember going to sit in the bathroom because of it. Feet against the bathtub. Back against the wall. Book in my hand. Softly washed blue towels hanging about me. I still do this, despite my own bathroom not being blue, despite my own towels not being quite that soft. A fact which makes Justin ask at night whether I'm going to the bathroom for five minutes, or for an hour. Somehow, a piece of the blue, and what it meant to me, seeped into the bathroom as well. But it's still about that same feeling. The feeling that comes to me from blue.
This blue moved when my mother moved houses, a signature of hers - a favorite. It always had a spot. And when I began my own house, the blue came with me.
My blue is in my bedroom. (Also in my sister's bedroom, come to think of it, though hers has more purple in it than mine.) On the bedspread. Hung from the curtain-rod. It is one of the only rooms in my graduate-life restrained decorating world that I actually like and plan to keep the same. Even now, when I walk in my room - especially in the afternoon, when light falls through the windows and brings the blue its glow - I feel myself take a breath. It makes me say to myself: "This is my house. The house I am creating." No other room ever brings that thought from me. And I know that it's the blue that does it.
This last weekend Ellie informed me that "Grant was the most annoying brother ever, and that all he ever did was BOTHER her." Then she asked if she could go sit in my room.
"I feel better in there. The way the light comes in on the bed, and through the windows."
I knew what she was talking about.
She was talking about blue.