By Rowen Aster
Bleu is not just hue.
It is inheritance, echo, return.
It is grief stretched thin into silk.
It is every woman I’ve ever been, humming softly beneath my ribs.
Bleu is the color of saltwater prayers and unopened letters.
To the little ten-year-old girl who had to bury her mother —
and face the world alone with no one to protect her.
She educated herself with children at her feet,
and became a powerhouse,
her mother’s spirit a quiet flame at her back.
Bleu is the color of silence I chose for myself.
In the corporate rooms that never truly accepted me,
that questioned my intellect, my worth —
still, I stood.
Still, I climbed.
I became what they said I could not —
and more.
I defied them all — with grace.
Bleu is the color my great-grandmother wore in dreams.
She visits me in stillness.
Whispers that they are proud.
That they have never left.
Bleu is the color of the woman I haven’t met yet, but already love.
I hope that when she looks back at me —
she is proud.
That she sees how I tried.
How I turned grief into silk.
How I made a life out of echoes.
what is the color of your becoming?
BleuPrint Diaries 
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