“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she’d tell her daughter on her dutifully daily calls. She didn’t want to tell her that she felt blue. Though she was sure her daughter could hear it in her tone, anyway. She could hear it herself. In how her voice was gravelly, rising up as if from deep beneath stagnant water.
The only time when she wasn’t blue was when for a moment she’d actually forget that she couldn’t just get in her car to drive up for the margarine she’d forgotten on her weekly shopping expedition with her caregiver. In that moment when she’d start to look for the car keys, then remember.
She’d look out the window at her car sleeping in the driveway. Sometimes she’d be tempted to just get in and drive off and hope that she wouldn’t have another accident. Hope no cops would stop her to ask for her license which had been revoked after her last collision.
She couldn’t bring herself to sell the car yet. She’d go out and start it up just so the battery wouldn’t go dead, but keeping her balance down the steps to the driveway was becoming more of a challenge. As trapped as she now was in her own house, she was trapped in her aging body; she’d sit on the edge of her bed and lose herself in wonderment, examining the brown spots on her hands, her veins.
No she wasn’t blue. Blue was that more evanescent feeling, when it might just be a rainy dull day. What she felt was despair. The kind that knocks the wind out of you so all you want to do is lie down on your bed.