Blue of April

I have no sympathy for people who have the blues; for people who play the blues; for Picasso’s blue period. Blue is the happiest color I know, blue is the sky today. Blue is the definitive proof that I can still see.

I am reduced to worrying about camera flashes, because stabs of lights are supposed to be one of the signs that my retina is detaching, drifting inorexably and irresistably away from whatever anchors it to my optic nerve, like a meteor into the gravity of a passing star ship.

When the clouds drift across the sky in April, instead of obscuring the blue they appear to be celebrating as I am; tiny black clouds dancing vertically, the fluffy cumulus layering themselves to different wind speeds. The snow in the yard is reduced to a few shamed patches, like marshmallows melting into the brown of the fall's dead grass; steam rises from the asphalt shingles on the roof as snow melts in the direct force of the sun; from the roof, the bare trees are a thin ring around the edge of my peripheral vision, but the blue, the blue is my world.