novella
Active Member
Light Blue
In 1977 light blue was something you put on your eyelids if you were a certain kind of disco-chick girl with platform shoes, a sparkle belt, a Huck-a-poo shirt, and hair inspired by David Bowie circa The Man Who Fell to Earth. I was not a blue-eyeshadow kind of girl, though. Light blue was the color of the cotton shirts I was supposed to wear to high school, with my gray pleated skirt and knee socks. I accessorized the dictated ensemble with a peacock feather roach clip, a man’s tweed waistcoat with a satin back, and a sun visor. I remember the sound of my brown leather clogs on the pavement when I walked to the subway in the morning, under the canopy of Kwanzan cherry blossoms that lined my street. I remember the feeling of drinking the spring air in and knowing I would not be 16 forever. I clogged past the war criminal’s house, past Trip Keating’s whose father drank with the priests, past the wacky lady who let squirrels in. Each house had some darkness within. Everyone has trouble. I knew that already, walking by so loudly in the early morning light, cupping a lit cigarette in the palm of my hand. I didn’t worry, though. I felt that the dark things behind my own door would come right in the end.
In 1977 light blue was something you put on your eyelids if you were a certain kind of disco-chick girl with platform shoes, a sparkle belt, a Huck-a-poo shirt, and hair inspired by David Bowie circa The Man Who Fell to Earth. I was not a blue-eyeshadow kind of girl, though. Light blue was the color of the cotton shirts I was supposed to wear to high school, with my gray pleated skirt and knee socks. I accessorized the dictated ensemble with a peacock feather roach clip, a man’s tweed waistcoat with a satin back, and a sun visor. I remember the sound of my brown leather clogs on the pavement when I walked to the subway in the morning, under the canopy of Kwanzan cherry blossoms that lined my street. I remember the feeling of drinking the spring air in and knowing I would not be 16 forever. I clogged past the war criminal’s house, past Trip Keating’s whose father drank with the priests, past the wacky lady who let squirrels in. Each house had some darkness within. Everyone has trouble. I knew that already, walking by so loudly in the early morning light, cupping a lit cigarette in the palm of my hand. I didn’t worry, though. I felt that the dark things behind my own door would come right in the end.