How Blue is My Sapphire [COMPLETE]

How Blue is My Sapphire

All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am...

That is who I try to be. Is that too harsh?

Now, some of us (me, especially) might be wondering why I'm writing. Some (most) people will be grumbling that they don't care. I don't either. But this single collection of freshly arranged words, sewn together by threads of ignorance, carries a lot of meaning for my humble being. The first and the last pages of an untold diary. No dates, no times, no 'dear diary.'

While I'm blotting these blank pages with ink, one lost tune seems to find me and bleed in. One tune that is hard to explain, easy to ponder upon.

I'll steal you the stars from the darkest of nights,

And bleed you rubies gouged out from my heart

Oh look at the ground dearest- I set it alight,

After tearing the skies apart.

Upon such a night, you fly away

Into those voids of infinite rhymes,

Tell me if you saw those tears that swayed

When the blue faded from your sapphire eyes.

Well, you took all the light, the night you bring,

You're dead, dearest. Now let us sing...

Imagining these verses bring upon vivid memories at the bottom of my heart. And I start to ache. Badly.

When I look out of the double paned windows of my second floor apartment room, the night waves at me. I don't wave back. This writing business is awfully frustrating if you don't experience what you write; fulfilling if you do. Yet even as the stars shine down upon the window glass, saying that maybe...maybe I do not feel what I'm writing, I don't believe it.

Shrug off the past, blow away the future, and kiss the present. It's going to be a long, long night.

The devil who went by the name of cancer, took away my wife on the eve of autumn of some sad year. Which year, doesn't matter. Amelia Clarke. I look at the pale yellow lamp-light splayed on my paper and jump back to the night when the smoke rang with tears. Her parents, my parents and a few others were present when she was cremated. They had cried. Me? The tears hadn't come, but there was this sculptor. Inside my head. And he was chipping away, slowly and painfully at all those memories Amelia and I had created. Then he took those broken pieces and sprayed it all over my heart. They had stung. You don't really know what that feels unless you've experienced it first hand- losing someone whom you couldn't imagine losing. It had been done to me while I was staring at those flames lick up her auburn hair, wishing and wishing they wouldn't get to those precious blue eyes of hers'.

Yet they had.

One week before my wife's throat cells went haywire, she had given me a memento, or memorabilia, or whatever you call those things that signify a person's life. And she had said something which I never really got. She had said- "Eddy, send away when you need most." And through the waves of newly surfacing sad emotions, I had seen her blink at her tears. And I had seen one single droplet edge around her cheek, and disappear into those brownish curls that lay on the hospital pillow. What she had handed me was her harmonica. Deep blue with gold and black designs. Blue was in fact her favourite colour. I loved to hear her play it. Soothing waves that flow over your mind, listening to tunes that rise and swell, then sink in deep. She used to laugh while playing it, adding more subtle beauty to that smooth music. And, I guess that was the only thing that made us feel the immensity of the bond we shared. That- and slow dancing. That strange blue harmonica and its dances...me and my Amelia...such connections shouldn't be expressed in paper, lest it takes away the charm.