For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has worn indigo. Not dark blue. Not purple. Indigo. For reasons I never managed to learn, it was always very important to her that everyone knew it was exactly indigo.
I could pick her out of any crowd, even though she was barely five feet tall in heels. I knew the color, the exact shade. It was always so reassuring to know that color meant safety, that when I looked around and saw it, Grandmother was near by and she would be easy to find when I needed to see her, when I wanted to find her.
Perhaps that’s why it was so jarring to see her dressed in black. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t feel like it was actually her laying in that coffin. Perhaps that was why I didn’t believe my mother when she told me that Grandmother was actually dead. Why it took too long for me to move past the denial stage of grief. She wasn’t my grandmother unless was wearing indigo. So, the woman they buried couldn’t have been my grandmother.
So yeah. I guess that’s why I get a little teary eyed everytime you wear that shirt. Sorry it’s so silly.