“What color are your eyes?” amber-eyed C– demands as we watch the wind in the dogwoods.
I am not sure. I look down at my blouse to remember what I am wearing.
The sky and my shirt might be the best places to start my answer.
Some days they are my father’s celestial blue. Some days alfalfa green gleams through with a tinge of middle-age gray making a confusion I refer to as marble.
I tell turn the question back to C–, say, “I don’t look at them. What do you see?”
He says, “Maybe the Earth from the moon?”
The hue he sees reminds you of distance.
According to the DMV, they are hazel, one color made of many colors.
In a chapter titled “Blue Chair: Texture,” from her book The True Secret of Writing: Connecting Life with Language, Natalie Goldberg describes:
But the turquoise looks thin on paper, so I swing the paintbrush over to red and glob it on heavy all over the chair, which does not become red because it has turquoise underneath. I try green, then a cerulean blue, then I take a leap—to an opera high pink. I squeeze out some magenta, all the while adding more water to the brush. I alternate from the cakes in a row to the tubes. What am I doing other than sidestepping a mess? Building texture until the chair purrs and looks like velvet. What color is it now? I’m not sure if it is a green, a blue, a purple? It is all of those, but not in patches, more the way anything is if you look at it long enough. One color is made up of many colors.
What does one color made of many colors feel like?