A story about blue transition.
Several nights ago, I dreamed that I found two tiny bird eggs abandoned on the ground, in danger of being trampled. They were as small as my thumbs and powdery blue. I picked them up gently to carry them to safety and set them on a shaded bench, where they suddenly began to hatch before I’d expected. One gold beak peeked out after the other, cracking quietly through their shells, the chicks’ necks emerging slowly from the cool blue shadows and craning left and right for sunlight. I remember worrying that I wasn’t sure how to care properly for those precious baby birds. I remember fearing that they might have been born too early to survive. But mostly, I remember the bittersweet blueness of those tiny, perfect eggs before they fractured; the fragility of that soft phase just before impending change. Their vulnerable impermanence made them precious. Whether crushed by strangers’ feet or collapsing from within, those eggs were fated to fall apart, the way all sweet shells must ultimately crumble so that life can see the light — so that blue can give way to gold. … Mid-September is a strange time of in-between. It’s no longer the juicy peach of sweet summer at its ripest, when it’s lush-leafed and sticky, but it’s not yet the crisp crunch of fall. The sky seems to hold its breath, whispering slivered hints of minty breezes that slice through the lingering heat like wire through clay. Slice, slice, slice — with the promise of the eventual release of a cool, refreshing sigh. For now, we wait. Before green leaves turn to gold, the world seems to pause in a state of blue. It’s the soft blue of the transition; the indigo of in-between; the delicate robin’s egg of “not yet” but “eventually” and “almost” and “I hope.” It’s a quiet, fragile shade between summer’s grassy jade and autumn’s copper, wavering between here and there. There’s a serene quality to it and a sweetness to the hushed anticipation, but also an awareness that the blue won’t last. That the calm will collapse. That the peaceful prescience of “eventually” will have to crack, whenever the universe says, “GO.” I keep leaving my apartment in overzealous outfits of long jeans and sweaters, then returning home mid-day to switch to shorts and tank tops, startled and blinking like a baby bird still learning the world’s fickleness.…
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