A blue grey green. The paint was mixed obsessively. Adding a little blue here, a little black there. You had to make the paint your own. Had to stamp it with your creative touch. I can see the color now. Don’t have a name for it though. A blue grey green. We put it on our bedroom wall after peeling off the decaying wallpaper. All the walls in England have mold, it seems. It just gets painted over, decade after decade.
I was in the second trimester, with enough energy to burn. Rather than morning sickness, anxiety was my pregnancy side effect. It was never bright in that room, with light from window overlooking the park across the street, cheap white lace curtain blowing in with the breeze. The shadows made the color look different on every wall, sometimes more blue than green, other’s more grey than blue. It was a gorgeous paint.
On the wall at the head of the bed, I painted a giant tree, filled with birds. It grew out from the floorboards and stretched it’s branches to the corners, bursting with life.
We left that house four years ago, we left that life in England— all those connective memories started to loosen when we moved to America. A lot of things are missing, so it’s a comfort to be able to still see that color when I close my eyes.
Early this morning, as I cuddled my mostly-sleeping daughter, I told her little ear how her daddy had given me the best gift of all.
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