after Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston
Blue. Perhaps baby blue. The shade you gift a baby boy in a shower that does not involve a drop of water. But I’m talking about the July sky, here, in my corner of earth, is rarely blue. Mostly grey.
The difference was the absence of flying tins. Lesser homecomings. Lesser reunions. Lesser family portraits. Lesser planes. Well. My eyes are salted because the rain tastes of the sea now.
Or maybe, just for me.
I mean, no. I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.