It was not coincidental. Of that, I am certain.

“Did you remember to reset the white-balance on that? I think I changed it when we carved the pumpkins. These all look a little blue, Babe.” He pointed this out after I’d taken nearly 90 pictures—my attempts to hoard a day’s worth of gold to spend throughout the gray days of winter all done in vain. The shocking brilliance of the sun glinting against the yellow maples reproduced on my tiny digital screen in lime green—a little blue, indeed.

Looking back, blue shadows were beginning to be cast even before the pumpkins were carved and the camera futzed with. A hint of melancholy that I passed off as premenstrual hormones lingered longer than pre and held on into post. Technical issues aside, it was no coincidence I had captured that entire day in shades of blue. The representation was uncanny in its accidental accuracy.

Life is like this, sometimes. Details remain unchanged—the leaves, the trees, the river, the children—but a blue hue discolors everything, turning the golden brightness of life to chartreuse while the operator is unaware. Melancholy does this to me—messes with my white-balance, casting colorful shadows that distort yet don’t.

Photoshop may save my stash of gold. The beauty of digital is that sometimes color can be easily corrected. The problem with life is that sometimes it can’t. I turn to that which re-calibrates me, and I hold out for splotches of yellow, storing them up for the season when blue will turn to gray.

All will be color-corrected in time.

depression nature reflection