Shades

He always saw his life in shades of grey. The sun rises and shades tend to follow. The sun sets and the shades fall with it. He often listens to the descriptions of those who experience color. His friend, who lost his lady love, talks about fiery “reds” and soft “oranges.” This friend talks about nights when the sun sets, describing the shades of “purples” and “pinks” and “blues” but he never once saw these hues. He often contemplated what life was with colors. He pondered on the thought of “green” because he loved the idea of laying in the soft grass. Or the pin-prick of a “green” pine tree, like those of holiday old.

He thought about home when those trees would catch his eye. He remembers seeing his mother with shades of grey staining her face. He’d hear her cry about fading lights. When he asked about “blue,” she softly smiled, tears streaking her face. She would tell him she doesn’t remember thoughts of color for those memories faded long ago.

Once, in the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a shade that was… different? He chased after it. Brushing past the city crowds. He watched it fade into grey. Shaking his head, he thought it was just a dreamer’s tale. At home, that night, he’d try to remember the difference he’d seen, but that thought slipped away into his dreams.

One rainy day, he stopped at a bus stop on the way to work. A girl with a soft smile came by and asked him about the time. With a gloom about him, he looked at his watch. Told her the time. She thanked him.

He recalls the weeks that come next. A week with her greetings only. A next week with him exchanging along for her to be heading away. The third week with their exchanges turned into laughter of parting words. He recalls the greys being lighter then.

He then thinks about the day where they went away together. Down to a local pub, they’d exchange life stories. Their cries could be heard through the city streets as they went about. He remembers dropping her off, the fuzzy feeling of watching her eyes. The quick turn before she got back on the bus.

He remembered all of it alright. Even another rainy day at the bus stop. He stared at the ground. He was asked for the time and he replied. The person sat next to him. He was surprised to not see the girl.

He remembered the choirs singing…

A week later, at that bus stop, she never came.

A week later, at that bus stop, she never came.

A week later, at that bus stop, she never came.

A week later, at that bus stop, she never came.

His memory focuses on nights at the pub, drinking. The black bitterness of the cup was just as bitter as his blackened soul. He gave up on seeing color, for the world was cold… And grey.

The days he woke up remembering her were the days he thought he’d never see color. “Reds” as feisty as the flames engulfing woods or “blues” as suffocating as the oceans’ depths.

But he remembers stumbling upon a park. He cannot forget the days where he spent sitting underneath a tree. The greyness of the world became more bearable, but he still pondered about the girl. Where did she go, he asked. Why did she leave?

Within a week he discovered a way to dream again. Under that very tree, he began to write, to read. He’d find writers alike who would describe a world of “reds,” “oranges,” “yellows,” “greens,” “blues,” and “purples.” He read to learn what color would match each leaf during autumn. Or what each flower looked like in spring. There were months, where under the tree, the world’s grey fell away and he’d be able to dream of color.

If memory serves him well, he recalls walking to the bus stop, noticing the spot he sits, sat the girl. He remembers the fuzz as her eyes met his, but he just sat next to her. He remembers asking for the time and she replied with apologies. He waved goodbye and got on the bus.

He remembers the week she tried to explain. He remembers convincing himself to understand.

He recollects of her telling him about her family fallings and as she went to leave, he told her about the tree. The park. Laying in the grass. He sat with her. He felt yellow as he told her about the months gone by. The writings, the expression of color.

But when She asked of color, he shrugged. He remembers the worry falling like petals when he told her he hadn’t seen any. But with a sigh, he explained that his colors came from writers alike but there were none of his own. He feels as he felt then, the touch of his wrist and the soft glow of her reassurance that he’d see them one day.

Like a lovesick teen, he caught up with her for weeks. His shades of grey were rising once again as they lay under the stars. Speaking of many things once again, she even told him of fading colors as she got older. The loss of yellow being the coldest grey. Learning day by day more and more of her past.

At the park one day, they met. The fuzzy feeling making a “yellowing” glow, or at least he recollects it that way. He read her writings and she shared her songs. With more days spent together, the more he noticed her grey splatters of freckles. The darks around her round nose and how her eyes bright eyes light up her face.

A day under the tree, he asked her out. She said yes and they went around. He showed her secret hide ways and she would lead him to favorite places. He walked her home, with the night rising high, he asked to kiss her. When his eyes opened, the shock in her bright eyes began to color. In a spark, grey turned to bright. Her eyes lighting up. She asked about the colors and he agreed. Their world now wasn’t so bleak.