Its all about thinking

Color or colorless

I remember flashes. Flashes of something. A few strokes to go with sounds, minuscule shapes and intricate patterns. But not much, before my 3^rd birthday. Mum says that one morning, the 17^th of July, I woke up with white orbs for eyes. Mum has a soft voice and her faced is lined with wrinkles; she wont tell me, but I can feel…… I can always feel. Mother does not send me to school. She says “its an unhealthy palace.” For me…… that I could be exposed to germs and bullying. But I know what she is truly afraid of… me discovering and learning something that will push me away from her and break the walls that she has so carefully built around me. I read my book HARRY POTTER and GOBLET OF FIRE, a copy my mum bought for my birthday. I was tired of her reading out to me. I asked her for a copy in Braille and she obliged. She usually does that. I read about the Triwizard championship and imagined that I was there, next to Harry Potter, walking through the streets of Diafon alley and fighting dragons and listening to mermaid songs in the prefects bathroom, glancing at the colourful talking traits. And then the question comes to my mind. “mum” I holler. She comes quickly,her footsteps tapping against the rough-floor board. I feel her near me. “Mum, whats  colour?” I hear her grasp and I hear a soft “putt” the sound of a drop of water; but its not a water its teardrop. “mum why are you crying?” “oh, something got me in the eye”. It’s a thick sound; a liar sound. I chose to ignore it. I want an answer. “Whats colour?” I want an answer. You know what is colour. Red, blue, pink, yellow,green.They are all colours. I know she is trying to ignore what I truly want to ask, by the soft, “Shhh” of her wringing hands. “No, you know that’s not what I mean;what do colours look like mum?”I hear her pull a chair and sit besides me. I wonder what she will reveal. Will colours be as intriguing as I imagine? “Lorie colours are they are.. oh…” I don’t know what they are. I heard her rapid sobs an inch closer to her, hugging her. “its really fine mum, I really do not care” “I really do, but I rather not have mom cry.” “you deserve to know. Its wrong. So wrong!” she breaks down. I cant see her crying. Its me who is blind. I should cry. I walk out of the room, my hands gliding on the cold rod of the staircase as I walk down and open the door. The sunlight caresses my face, the wind murmurs. The grass tickles my toes and I giggle in spite of myself.  I plop myself in this backyard garden that father made for me. Mum retorted me how dad worked day and night planting flowers and ferns for me, though he was ill; the malady that took him away few days before I was born. I run my hands over the plants, feeling the soft petals between my fingers, imagining dad, how he must have touched the thriving pots of colours; how he wanted to create a place where I could find solace. Its then realized what colours are; its then I felt the meaning of them. They are vivid and bringing you immense joy and even if I can never see them, I can feel them.

    My colours are that of love, swirling around me. After all, I can always feel, cannot I?