“That  blue.”

She wanted to grab it, put it in her purse, take it out whenever she felt like it.

Home was colorless, especially in February. Grey skies, grey pavement, grey faces at the mall, grey droning tik toks endlessly scrolling, scrolling, long into the grey starless night.

But in this magical corner of the earth, nearer to the Equator, a land once replete with sugar plantations that spoke her language but didn’t really because she had to strain to understand, here the colors were vivid, opulent, rich, sometimes blinding.

And the stars? Too many, so many.

Jerk chicken, festival fried bread, fresh pineapple for the next seven days.

The endless crashing waves were SO loud, prominent and foreign in the beginning of her stay. They tugged at her, “Good morning. What adventures await, madame? Perhaps a walk on the beach before breakfast? Or chatting by the poolside? Do you fancy a game of dominoes?”

Two days in, and the eye feasts, the sea music, the salt of the air were already a constant, and softer. 

She snapped a myriad of photographs: some posed with her fabulous new girlfriends, some natural, some in quiet moments, alone. 

She couldn’t help it. Her mind kept counting the days back to the grey. She didn’t want to - she kept telling herself to stop. But her mind had been trained to look for that invisible horizon, to the NEXT. 

The NEXT dictated her schedule, her husband, her children now grown, the parent groups, the coffee visits, the book clubs, the checkout lines. It lingered like burnt oil on an iron skillet. 

By day three, she staked a spot for the afternoons.

Under palm fronds, she pulled out her traveling kit of watercolors along with a tiny drawing book of stiff, deliciously clean pages.  

Determined to knock her mind OFF the NEXT, she would focus on CAPTURE. She penciled an outline.

Easy enough. So she dipped her brush.

She hesitated. She stared at the squares. Where to start? She had the standards: the reds, the greens, the yellows plus. But THIS ocean- what was it? Deep or light blue? Golden? Depended on the day, the time, the sun- hell, this was a symphony.

She closed the book. “I can’t capture a symphony.” She grabbed her hat, holding it down with one hand, and walked into sunlight, facing the sea.

“Still, stay still.”

The wind whipped through her hair, whirred into her ears. Her linen scarf flapped.

Woooooooooossshhhhhhhhhhhhh

Quiet beat. (Breathe in)

Wooooooooooooooossshhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Quiet beat. (Breathe out)

She brushed rogue strands from her face. She tightened her hat.

Wooooooooooooooosssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Quiet beat.

Over and over. No NEXT, no WHAT ABOUT, no WHAT IF. For eternity, the waves slapped the same rhythm, the same woosh, the same beat. Unceasing motion, a conversation, from the shoreline, to the inhabitants of its deepest crevices, to the sky creatures, all the way to the moon.

She opened the book. She dipped her brush in the turquoise square. Back and forth, back and forth she drew thick lines, covering the page with one, single, solid, exquisite color.

Captured. Done. NO NEXT. “This is my mind’s eye.”

And it was perfect.