“It’s blue,” she said. “Like your eyes.”

She was right, wasn’t she?

But she was young and I was young

And the clear sky above us was a lovely shade of blue,

And the sand of the sandbox was soft beneath us,

And the other children were shrieking happily on the nearby playground.

My smile only grew.

I think I would’ve believed her if she said it was purple.

I was six. She was six too.

We were young and the sky was blue.

I am often brought back to this moment,

Especially while laying in the silence of my hammock,

Swaying gently by myself in the late afternoon sunlight,

Waiting for a familiar pair of socked feet to be playfully shoved in my face

And the laugh that accompanies them, drifting through my ears like the summer breeze.

I remember the hammock visits clearer than I remember the sandbox.

I was twelve. She was twelve too.

We were young and the sky was blue.

We talked and laughed

And laughed and talked.

Summer camp ended and the real world returned,

But she was still there

With whispered confessions on bright screens hidden under bed sheets

and tentative kisses exchanged on beaches at twilight.

I was giddy. There is no better adjective.

I was fifteen. She was sixteen.

We were young and the sky was black.

I remember the night well.

We had abandoned the hammock for a bench.

I told her she looked pretty.

She sighed shakily and closed her eyes.

I don’t remember much after that,

But I do know that she never again told me that my eyes were blue.

I was seventeen. She was seventeen too.

We were older.

I don’t think she ever truly noticed the shade of my irises

As they are far closer to that of the sea than the sky,

But I hold onto the memories as if they were liferafts

As a turbulent sea thrashes around me.

If I close my eyes and think long enough

I can still feel the sandbox beneath me,

The happy shrieking of nearby children echoing in my ears,

A girl lying in the space to my left,

And the bluest of skies above me.

“It’s blue,” she had said. “Like your eyes.”