PitchBlue

“I like the yellow roses. And oh, the pink daisies.”

Her friends tell her.

She wonders what the difference might be.

For her, it’s mostly about the patterns.

She went shopping with her cousins last weekend.

Trying on dresses, they were looking at the mirror pausing to ask each other, “Is this color looking good on me?”

She, on the other hand, grabbed the first thing that fit.

Sitting at the dinner table, she couldn’t understand when her small sister said, “Oh! The food looks pretty: how colorful!”

Her fascination of colors tells a lot about she aspiring to be an artist, her parents say.

She wanted to be a painter too, but the times her sister criticized the paintings she thought were beautiful—saying the colors didn’t go well together—made her believe she won’t be able to do it.

So she gave her the colors, and stayed with the pencil and papers.

In the evenings I have lied down next to her on the grassy field nearby, I have noticed her close her eyes and heard her hum when I gaze into the orange horizon.

Last time, we stayed a little longer.

Long enough to see the stars twinkle in the pitch blue sky.

The beauty made me wish I could talk in colors so that I would have something to give her, something I thought she will never otherwise know of.

I held her hand.

I had just started to say “Pitch blue is” when she looked at me and completed the sentence, “Serenity. Warmth. Love. Nostalgia. Pain too.”

She took me by surprise because I could never have put it better than that myself.

Filling in my silent amazement, she smiled and said, “I don’t see in colors. I don’t understand them. But I know how I feel about the Night-sky.”