Blue and Her Multicoloured Dresses.

Her name was Blue,

Dressed in pink,

She felt ridiculous.

Not long ago,

She recognised

What blue was,

And she looked at her clothes.

Yet she was the child

And they were the adults,

Who could blame her

For not getting answers?

Her mothered laughed

When she asked

“Why am I in pink

When my name is Blue?”

And Her mother said,

“Because it suits you,”

With little more than a smile.

But still she wasn’t pleased,

Because she was a child

Who wanted some answers.

In the light of her early years,

She tried not to think about it,

Yet on her fifth birthday,

Her mother dressed her in green,

Again Blue frowned,

Because it seemed,

This was not her colour.

“Mummy, Why am I in green

When my name is Blue?”

And her mother just said,

“It’s a pretty colour”

And Blue just pouted.

She was starting to hate

Any colour that

Wasn’t “Blue”

Her friends laughed,

But she pouted.

On her tenth birthday,

Her mother gave her a purple dress,

With a smile,

And again she pouted.

“Mummy!”

She said sweetly,

“Why am I in purple

And not Blue!?”

“Because darling,

Purple is fashionable.”

Blue was not pleased.

Blue blew steam,

Large puffs

Out of her small ears,

But still she wore the dress

Because it had a nice design.

She wasn’t unhappy, though.

And Blue grew up,

Trying hard to fit in,

Even though,

Her name was odd.

On her fourteenth birthday,

She straightened her hair

For the very first time.

As she opened her early gift,

From her mother,

She found herself looking at,

Something bright red,

Nearly,

Though not quite,

Matching her own,

Auburn hair.

“Mummy!”

She demanded,

Feet stomping into the kitchen,

Hair flaring about,

Angrily.

“Why am I in red,

And not Blue?”

And her mother

Just said,

“Because you’re still too young,

To understand what it means,

To be Blue,

And to wear something else.”

Blue pouted even more,

So big was her pout,

Not even the layer

Of her first professionally

Done make up

Could hide the frown.

But somehow by the time

The party was over

She was no longer frowning,

But simply

Enjoying herself.

As she grew up,

Her hair grew longer

And more voluminous.

Her attitude,

Sharper and more unique,

As she chose what she wanted

Rather than what others wanted.

And she completely forgot,

Until her eighteenth birthday,

When she unwrapped her mother’s present,

Not really thinking of anything

In particular,

And found herself staring,

At the most elegant gown,

She had ever seen.

Pulling it out of the box,

She looked in awe

At the length of silk before her eyes.

When she put it on,

It was the right size,

And the right shape,

Pulling where it should,

Draping where it looked good.

In surprise,

She walked into her mother’s room,

And asked,

Breathlessly, she asked,

“Mother, why am I in blue,

And not some other colour?”

Her mother just smiled,

Touched her daughter’s cheek

And kissed her forehead.

“Darling, because I am not afraid anymore,

That you will choose because,

It was given to you,

And not because you wanted it,”

She held her hand,

“You have made me proud.”

And that is the story of Blue,

Who received a dress,

That was never her namesake,

Whose mother never gave her answers,

Until she grew up,

To understand,

The difference between her choice,

And her mother’s.

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