Blinded Colors

Everyone thinks my vision is always dark. That I can’t see anything. As if a flashlight had been switched off. People think I just stumble through the world, eyes closed and blind. Rather, a film is placed over the flashlight. I see a multitude of colors, ones I can’t name: blurry shapes, faded shadows, and bright dots. I don’t pay attention to any of it. 

Instead, I listen to her voice. How it flows and dips, pausing to take breaths and quickens when she’s excited. We’re on our daily walk, and she’s describing everything to me. How the trees are losing their leaves, which softly fall to the ground. How the roses outside the house are shriveling up, ready to disappear for winter. How the dogs tug on their leashes to greet us as we walk by. How the birds perch in their trees, spreading their songs. She names the colors as we go.

Many people have tried to describe colors to me. It’s infuriating when they say blue is the sky or how green my shirt is. I have never seen either. Colors are irrelevant to me, a major component of everybody’s perspective but mine. I’ve never seen what they looked like, but she tells me how they feel. 

Red is love and anger. She doesn’t like how one color represents two contrasting ideas, but I think anger and love stem from passion: two buds of the same flower. Red is when someone writes you a heartfelt letter, or when someone makes a snide comment behind your back. It is the color behind “I love you”, but also “I hate you”. 

Orange is simple and carefree. It is summer and the smell of citrus. It’s when you were 10 and enjoying popsicles and hot dogs with your best friend after a long day of swimming. It’s the feeling of winning a soccer game when the coaches hand out orange slices and Goldfish. Orange is innocence and childhood.

Yellow is the sound of her voice. Whether she’s describing the trees on our daily walk or complaining about an annoying coworker. She takes me outside and says yellow is sunshine and happiness. It is warm hugs and giggles late at night. It is the pages of a book. To me, yellow is the sound of her laughter, bright and happy, still echoing in my ears long after it’s stopped. Yellow is her favorite color, so it’s also mine.

She puts my hand on the prickly grass. Green, she says, is the color of life. The trees, the bushes, the leaves, the grass, everything is green. Green is refreshing and rejuvenating, like ice on a hot summer day. But green is also money, and jealousy, and greed. I don’t think I like the color green. It reminds me of people stealing because I cannot see them, of deceit and lies. It reminds me of how I used to envy the others who could see so easily and bullies at school playgrounds. And so, I don’t think life can be green.

We went to the beach together one day. Blue is salty waves lapping against my ankles. It’s cold and relaxing, always there. Blue is many things, too many to make sense. Blue is the feeling of deep conversation, losing a loved one, traveling to a new place, and your friends sticking up for you. It is a combination of many complex feelings, all mixed up to simply be called blue.

I don’t understand what purple is. She’s tried to explain it to me, by saying purple is royalty and velvet. I remember learning purple dye comes from snails, but there are no memories I can associate it with. Purple is just a fact to me, not a feeling. It’s there, mysteriously tucked in the back of my brain, until some memory takes its place.

Pink is vibrant and thrilling. It is seeing your friends for the first time after a long summer break, or sneaking out of the house. It is hearing her voice call out my name. Pink knows no boundaries, wild and nomadic, it creates so much joy which will fill up every crevice of your life in that moment. Pink happens rarely, but those memories are never forgotten. Pink is beautiful.

Brown is an island getaway, with warm sand and tropical fruits. It’s drinks in coconuts and the smell of rich coffee beans. It’s the smell after a storm, of rain and earth. Brown is peace, but unlike calm blue, it is sure and confident. Brown whispers the silent sound of luxury.

I like the comfiness of Gray, full of hidden secrets. It is the sound of rain, droplets splattering against the sidewalk. It is mist settling into the city, snaking its way through buildings. It’s the sound of traffic.  It’s waking up next to her, half-asleep and hidden underneath a mountain of blankets. Gray is soft and sweet.

She tells me that white is pure and silent. I think white is overwhelming. I cannot bear to sit in silence for too long. When one sense is gone, the other 4 need to satisfy their cravings, with more noise, smell, touch, or taste. White is the mute and the empty taste of nothing.

They tell me that black is the color of darkness and death. I disagree. I once had a dog named Lilo, who I was told had gleaming black fur. Lilo was the most energetic thing I’ve ever met, racing down hills and chasing after balls. If Lilo’s coat was black, then black must represent life, not death. Death cannot be compared to a beautiful dog, who begs for scraps of every meal, and guided me away from danger. And so, I love black.

Colors all around me. Things I’ve never been able to comprehend or see. People always pity me, and ask if I wish I was not blind. I respond no. To me, it doesn’t matter. When I have been blind my entire life, it does not make sense for me to wish for a different life. I don’t care if I don’t know what red or blue looks like. I know how they feel, and all I want is to remember the sound of yellow laughter, the sleepiness of gray mornings, and the liveliness of black.