My mother dressed me in red.
A good red winter coat.
Red socks to cheer up the plaids.
Red barrettes in my brown hair.
Later, a good black wool skirt,
black sweater to go with everything,
a simple black crepe sheath
to dress up or down, black slacks.
No wonder I wear blue.
“Blue. Blue. Blue.” My daughter says.
“You always make me wear blue.
All my dresses are blue.
Blue shoes. Blue sheets. Blue pillows.”
True. I’m guilty if blue is wrong.
“But dear, what color do you want?”