A Tiny Speck of Blue

On one side was a beautiful young woman, on the other was a fat old man. Between them was the only free seat on the bus. I swung off my backpack with practised motion and attempted to minimise human contact. I couldn't look left or right, as that would violate their personal space, and looking ahead was exceedingly dull. The front window was framed by the weak, blue lights mounted on the walls of the bus. These lit only the grey interior filled with people huddled in layers of dense winter clothing. Everyone was engrossed in their own personal thoughts, and the dim glow of their phones. The window gave view to a wider, less colorful world. A blackish-grey road was entrenched by several feet of snow, made brownish-grey by the dirt kicked up by traffic. The sky was a homogenous, monolithic, dark grey cloud that set a roof on every horizon. I took out my calculus textbook to give my eyes something else to look at. Pages passed by without my notice, black ink on white paper conveyed words I can't remember. All this was routine, every day was the same.

By chance I look up and notice something odd out the window to my right, I must look over someone to see it, but peculiarity draws attention. Out on the frozen, snow-dusted, slush-grey river is a speck of blue. It might be a toy box, or perhaps a recycling bin, but it does not belong out there on the ice. It has probably been blown onto the river by yesterday's storm; ushered into position by upheaval and happenstance. For a brief moment, that square of cobalt is all the color I can see in the world. It is blurred, and I can't make out its details through the sleet and the smudged window pane, but it is there. The other passengers give me odd looks, but it is there. Suddenly the bus is past the bridge and bleary townhouses once again wall the scene, and it is gone. I wonder what will happen to that tiny blue box?

More than likely, it will be overturned when the ice melts, and sink to be forgotten on the stony riverbed. There is a chance, however, that the open top will stay above water, and the little blue box will float on the current. Perhaps the river, instead of drowning it, will carry it safely to the ocean, where the tiny speck of blue will sail for the Azores. There it will be lost in an expanse of color and light. Cerulean and beryl and indigo will fill the sky and sea. The clouds will be of the purest white, and the beaches a warm golden stroke of land. Verdant jungles that cover the islands will posses each of the thousand shades of green, and the flowers they bloom will put forth hues that surpass the ability of human eyes to see. The rainbow of multitudinous fish will dance in the beams of sunlight that rhythmically beat upon the waters.

It was the brightest color I could see,
But in this moment now I realize,
It will be dull debris in the eyes of tomorrow.