Blue is the sea waves that we only saw crest on serene mornings. You’d gently wake me up and take my little hand in yours, your eyes smiling as we snuck past Mama, who was fast asleep.

Tick.

Blue is the checkered tie I gave you when I was nine. I picked it out myself, only to discover when you unwrapped it on your birthday that you owned the same one.

Tick.

Blue is the bike you bought me. You were so excited to go riding, but all I wanted to do was stay inside. We’d have plenty of years to go riding together.

Tick.

Blue is the banners we hung. We wanted to be proud of your fight. I wasn’t proud. I wanted to leave our footprints on that beach again. I wanted to buy you a thousand more ties that you already owned. I wanted to go on one more stupid bike ride. But you hadn’t been home in a while.

Tick.

Blue is the clock on my bedroom wall. I thought we had time, Dad. I thought you were going to sit in the audience for my graduation and play with your grandkids. But time ran out.