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 3rd birthday.
Mum says that one morning, the 17th 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?