True Colors

On a cold, clear December day ten years ago, when I was but two days old, on the very same Sunday the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, I was found stuffed into the copper kettle Hannah Spooner grew her marigolds in. Despite being wrapped in a tattered quilt, my skin was blue, bluer than a robin's egg as blue as the tears I imagined in my mother's eyes
when she left me there, with not even a note pinned
to my diaper to give a clue as to who I was or where
I'd come from.