Cerulean

By Anitta Tresa Bibin

"The interview is about to end,"

The woman says with tired eyes.

"One last question for the day.

What is your favourite colour?”

Silence.

Not the empty kind.

But the kind filled with years.

She looks down for a moment, smiles softly,

"Cerulean."

And suddenly, a thousand memories bloom inside her.

The sky she once stared at,

From a classroom window,

Dreaming of becoming

Something bigger than fear.

The oceans she loved

Because they knew how to be deep

Without making noise.

The colour of every dream she ever painted carefully

onto waiting canvases.

The shade that first disappeared from her old paint box,

Used too much,

Loved too much.

The slightest memory of all.

A little girl in a school uniform,

Feet swinging beneath a wooden chair,

Answering her teacher proudly

When asked the same question—

"What is your favourite colour?"

The child had grinned widely,

Without hesitation,

Without doubt.

"CERULEAN."

Years later,

The woman smiles the same way again,

Only quieter now,

Only softer.

As if she had finally found

The lost pieces of herself

Hidden inside a colour.