I rinse and rinse till the water drains clear, running my fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp. I forget to wear the gloves again. Or I don’t forget. My hands blue, the tub’s white plastic basin swirled blue, the shower hose blue. Bluemania, the shampoo bottle says, the last ingredient Basic Blue 7, after a list of chemicals I can’t pronounce, instructions to massage into hair, but rinse immediately from porous surfaces. I imagine blue seeping in past skin, past bone, inking the ridges of your brain. Cobalt, your favorite. We’ve performed this rite so many times I’ve lost count, a sense of déja vù settling in each time I rake your skull, aiming the nozzle at your short-cropped hair, only the tips still bleached from last summer. More and more, you take to your room, lights off, headphones on. Dear One, I know what it’s like to stand in a crowded room and feel alone. I know the solace of endless stories threading together my days, patching over night’s ragged mouth. I, too, have cried for a future poised like a snowglobe at the table’s edge, a handstand on a windy cliff. At the doctor’s office, you nod when she asks if there’s a family, if there’s a history. Blue inheritance, blue deposit I can’t rinse away. I help you towel dry, remove the sodden weight. Weeks pass. Cobalt fades to lake, olympic, sky. My hands are clouds. My hands, ready, recall their stains.