Maybe it is the fact that my Dad is blue. Bluer than I am. Iowa winters are long and tedious, but they are even more so when one seems trapped in a house, and I would imagine your own body, by Parkinson's disease. We try to stop in, try to make small talk, try to make him feel better, but sometimes there are no more words or actions and we are all just blue.
Maybe I am blue because the Captain and I went on a date but ended up arguing. Marriage is hard work. Were my expectations too high? Was I just being unreasonable because I was already feeling a bit blue? I don't know.
Maybe we have to know a little blue so that we can appreciate those moments when we are -in the words of Jane Austen- incandescently happy. Or in the words of the Bible, when much to our delight, joy cometh.
One thing I do know, I have not been drinking a silver colloid to treat dermatitis like this man, Paul Karason.
Until morning then,