My Life In Word

BECOMING BLUE

No one remembers the moment it happened, only that the sea noticed first.

The blue starfish had once been the color of sand, pale and unremarkable, shaped like something meant to blend in rather than be seen. It clung to rocks and let tides pass over it without complaint. It learned early that survival did not require brilliance—only patience.

Then the water began to change.

Storms came that pressed the ocean into itself, folding grief and salt and sky together. Ships crossed above, carrying losses the sea could not refuse: coins tossed for luck, tears dropped without ceremony, words spoken too late and swallowed whole. The blue starfish lay still and listened.

Blue seeped into it slowly.

Not the bright blue of postcards or shallow coves, but the deep, enduring blue that gathers where light thins and pressure teaches humility. The blue of holding. The blue of staying.

It absorbed the ache of currents that never rested, the patience of water learning the shape of stone, the sorrow of the moon, calling across the water to something that always answered by pulling away. Each tide left a trace. Each absence stained it further.

Over time, the blue starfish forgot it had ever been anything else.

Now it rests where the sea darkens, its color unmistakable. Not loud. Not decorative. Earned. When the light touches it just right, it does not shine—it deepens, as if remembering everything it has carried and chosen not to release.

That is how the blue starfish became blue.

By staying.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

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