Blue hands reached out to rescue me. Almost godlike, they treasured me close to their chests. I was a tiny baby, fresh from my mother’s womb, and these heroic hands reached out to save me.
Flailing, they whisper air into my lungs, fluttering my chest, pushing my heart to beat faster, stronger. Held again to their chests, I felt the warmth of love for all the tiny beings they held in their hands.
An ear to my mouth, one of these gods listened to me whistle. A slap on my naked backside and I cried. I cried out for my mother.
The room illuminated with smiles and the blue gods crumpled with sighs that I still hear on quiet evenings when I sit alone in the garden sipping wine.
Travelling through the sky, my mother’s arms reach out to take hold of me. Trembling, I was held securely, held to flushed pink that dripped with devotion. My Mama.
The gods stood around us, all blue with pink and brown, and with their luminous faces looked down upon Mama and me, overwhelmed for the second time that day.
I was thinking of the Indian gods and goddesses who are blue, and then of the uniforms and coloured surgical gloves of hospital workers.