How do you describe color to a girl who has only ever seen white, black, and grey? I ask this to silent strangers sitting on the curb. They laugh until they realize I am serious. Spluttering, trying to hand me an answer, I walk away, eager for one of the many cracks in the sidewalk to open wide and swallow me whole. Humming, the city seems to blend the hip-hop beat of boots hitting cement with the sweet jazz of opening doors and honking horns. It is a symphony conducted only by time itself. When people find out about my "deformity", they immediately become a sun of pity, radiating their sorrow for me at blinding speed; it is almost overwhelming.
This oven under my feet has been turned on, and I will soon become a toasted pastry if I don't get off it soon--I walk on. Sauntering silently, I make my way to the only place the stars grace the city with their presence. As I turn a corner, down an emptied ally, I come to the my sanctuary, a rundown car lot, sick from too many days of inhaling toxic fumes. Climbing slowly to the top, I take a minute to breathe and lie on my back. Someone is poking holes through the black curtain above me, letting pinpricks of light shine through. I often pray to the stars for a miracle. Why pray to God? It was He who took away color. He who stole beauty away from my eyes.
I can tell it is getting close to dusk. The knights of darkness are successfully defeating the queen of heat with their invisible blades, cold as ice, piercing buildings and walls. Not to worry, however, the queen will return for revenge with tomorrow's first light. A voice as smooth as a worn down rock, startles my thoughts, "Excuse me, do you mind if I join you?" I turn to see an elderly woman, dressed like a gypsy, with dirty, torn robes, but the most gentle eyes I've ever seen.
"Of... of course." I manage to stammer.
"So what seems to be the problem dear?" She asks. Her eyes have captured the stars and are holding them hostage, twinkling brightly. Those eyes are what cajole me to confide in this stranger. Without realizing, I tell her about my lack of ability to see color. I tell her how night and day are only shades of dullness to me, how I take refuge in the dark, for it is the only time it matters not whether I see in color or not.
After what seems like a year of silence, she responds. "Color, my sweet girl, is not just in sight. Colors are a sizzling stir-fry in a pot. It matters not what you mix together, for you are the cook." I ponder this odd remark as she continues. "Girl, not only can one see color, you can feel it, you can smell it. Let me give you an example. Red is the zing you feel on your tongue when you eat a hot pepper. A clear sky and an open mind is a light blue. Now tell me what you believe other colors are."
After a moment of deep thinking, I begin to understand. "Green is the sweetness of dew you smell after a morning of rain! Yellow is happiness and warmth; what you feel when you are in the arms of someone you love." I burst out. Tears sting my eyes from the sheer happiness this woman has given me.
"You will find more joy because even though you cannot see color, you understand it. My dear child, believe me when I say that you will find joy where there was pain, if you just give yourself a chance." I am about to ask her more, when she stops me with a wink, turns on her heels, and disappears down the ramp, much like a dream. As I think of her now, she might as well have been an ancient tree. Each of her branches holding words of wisdom that can shelter a small, lost bird like me, from the storms of the world. I will never forget her words that still echo in my head like a roar in a cave, "Colors are a sizzling stir-fry in a pot. It matters not what you mix together, for you are the cook."