Blue is the color of the gaseous concoction of Space, our canopy of sky on a cloudless day; the vast ocean when the sun is shining; hazy distant mountains.
My favorite shade is French blue. They have a word for it, azur. The word melts on your tongue like good chocolat.
Imagine a French farm—a house of gray stone, a barn the same, a cobbled courtyard. Then add a bright blue door on the barn. The French use their blue as an accent color on doors, window shutters, or flower boxes. Add a yellow paisley print to bleu fabric and you have some of the colors of Provence.
Blue is the color of blooming morning glories climbing a trellis. Of the ubiquitous hydrangea bushes all over Cape Cod.
So why when we’re sad do we call ourselves ‘blue?’
God bless the twenty-seven and their loved ones.