hopefuldoubtful
On the peeling wall of an old orphanage, long abandoned by its keepers and the children it housed, one perfect robin’s egg square remains. It is a testament to some kind of charm, some kind of joy. Who painted it there against that sea of bland cream? Did a bookshelf abut it on the left and an armchair on the right, or did it always stand like this, so proud and apart? Did five, six, seven-year-olds stare at it while they ate, or as they whispered to each other in the dusky light of bedtime? What did it signify in the life of the place, this parcel of color; what did it become in the imaginations of those who gazed on it? Perhaps a garden, perhaps an island, perhaps a patch of blue sky.
Now that their eyes have closed, ours have opened. The square continues to be those things, and more.
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