While My Guitar Gently Weeps floats upon the summer air, drifting in from the open window. She looks to the left and sees her father humming along.
“Daddy,” his little girl asked one day, “what color is love?”
Being a thoughtful man, he paused and his fingers that gripped the steering wheel longed to wipe away the iridescent tears from his daughter’s cheeks.
He pondered how to answer. Looking over at her he could have said this it is like the color of a kiss or the surge of a glance from a soulmate. Or maybe he should explain it is the color of a life swept away by a storm, or that if it is anything, it is the color of his favorite rose he planted years ago.
He slowed down the truck as they came to a stop sign. He turned to face her.
“Love,” he said as light as an angels touch, “is the color of your mother’s eyes.”
His little girl blinked as her face bloomed into a graceful smile. All her life, she had been complimented on her fine cerulean eyes, the ones that matched her mother’s like twin stars. As always, her daddy knew the answer to what ailed her.
The Beatles often inspire me and my dad’s memory is often a presence in the piece. Music was a huge connection between us.