As the sky turns from black to blue, as a dress from blue to white, my mother becomes a messenger of another. With the passing of time, we are watching, we are waiting as the ever blue becomes lighter and lighter, transcending to the empty void - the unreachable horizon.

For nearly five decades, my grandmother draped her body in nothing but blue, a sign of her absolute devotion. She followed and obeyed that which was laid down by her creed, never veering off. Her absence and presence was felt as palpable as the depths of ocean. And when vowels get stuck and tongues are tied, words fail as a body slowly desiccates of lost conversations, of unspoken words that drift away, as a prophecy is murmured in the wind.

A blue pigment, brightens white fabric, it leaves traces, an essence, a gesture behind. It records and holds, softly that which has been sent from mother to daughter.

A white dress, as her sect has said, is reserved for burials and so it shall be.