Blue is the sky. Vibrant and deep like the blue frosting on a Costco cake, but also gentle and soothing, like the “it’s a boy!” announcement on an aunt’s expectancy card. Gazing up, I sit on the firm, smooth sand, sending a chill down my spine as a breeze whistles over the beach. I hear the ocean, listening in awe to its effortlessly crafted song: a roaring crescendo, a soothing decrescendo. Repeat. A perfectly percussive prodigy, the ocean is, born with an unflawed sense of rhythm. It will sing its soundtrack for thousands of years, never missing a single beat. There I sit. I cast my gaze upward toward the heavens, opening my brown eyes so wide that the fresh air seems to scrape at my retinas. Nevertheless, I remain utterly mesmerized and entranced by the vast sky above me. Blue: the feeling that courses through my grandmother’s veins today, from the moment she wakes until the moment the documentary of my grandfather’s life playing in her head at full volume is shut off and she drifts into a slumber. Blue consumes her. The crushing memory of her deceased loved one tugs at her heartstrings as she sits alone at the kitchen table, looking through old photo albums and eating my grandfather’s favorite dessert. She is rudely disrupted by the sound of an alarm, reminding her she must go to church and pretend a priestly blessing will alleviate her pain. Heading for the front door in her black garb, she pauses hesitantly in the middle of her kitchen. What she would do for one more day with him, she thinks, peering sadly up at the sweltering Nicaragua sky. Blue: the secret ingredient in my cousin’s cheese fondue. She wrestles with the stubborn packaging before laying her eyes upon a perfectly shaped, glistening block of cheesy goodness. She gently places each ingredient into the pot, stirring to the beat of the music playing softly in the background. She hums, smiles, and stirs almost robotically, but a car pulling into the garage breaks her trance. She throws her spoon into the sink, suddenly unconcerned with the state of the cheese on the stove. She dashes out the front door and into the open arms of her eighteen-year-old daughter. After a hearty hug, she steps back, desperate to absorb everything about her daughter after not seeing her beautiful face for the past 30 days. She takes in the luscious brown hair, the perfectly crooked glasses, the navy green Israeli Defense Force uniform that proudly hugs her daughter’s petite figure. But she also observes her daughter’s tired eyes and hollowed stomach; she probably hasn’t eaten wholesome food since before she left for basic training. The two walk arm in arm up the stairs to join the rest of the family on the patio; it is the first time they’ve all eaten a meal together since before the daughter’s army induction. As they dunk their bread chunks and apple wedges into the gooey goodness bubbling in the pot before them, they look up at the sky, each privately thanking G-d for this incredible yet far too uncommon moment, as the Israeli sky creates the perfect backdrop with its vibrant shade of blue. The color of my toenail polish. I watch as it glistens and glimmers in the icy Bolinas water. I think of every person in the world looking at this same blue sky at this exact moment. This blue sky: a tiny snow globe on God’s shelf, and the world’s largest planetarium captivating an audience of a mere seven billion. Me, my sister, my friend, and my enemy, are all beneath this mesmerizing lid on our vast planet. Its amazing blue shade infiltrates our hearts, opens our minds, and turns seven billion into one. Forever grateful I will be for this blue sky, connecting me with any given person at any given moment, despite the words, feelings, hills, or waters that may try to keep us apart.