Color

Abstract

Morning at homelistening to silenceand a solo cello,caressing old books,fog outside,fire inside.Treesin crystal veils,fog-doused sun,Earth's palette replacedby soot and chalk.No color.Only grays,darker or lighter.No real black.No clean white.Beth Cranston diedthis morning, the only old-timer still in my oldneighborhood,except for Rod's momand my momand Mr. Humbert.Beth, exhaustedfrom succoring herblind brothers,blind son, grandson,great-grandson.Blindness carried only bywomen, worn only bymen. Each generationdeciding to have a babypossibly blind.Beth, exhausted by warwith cancer, stillnursed snapdragonsand hollyhocks,still helped when myblind mother fell.Beth, exhausted,buried two childrenincluding blind Richardand last weekpraised God thatshe would not liveto bury any more.My bishop warnedme at sixteento stay away fromshades of graybecause truth isblack and white.He did not mentionhot reds, shivering blues,volcanic yellows.And I did not ask.I hear the low notesof the cello in mybelly, the high notesbehind my eyes.The duck pond is darkbecause the springwater melts the frost.But the hills, the logs,the deer, allmidrange grays,subtle, soft, reluctant,all feathered pale.I squint throughlashes to darkenthe dark grays,lighten the lightgrays, to try tosee the blackand white worldof my bishop.I remember themorning Beth lefther garden to calmRichard raging, andI vowed I wouldnot add anotherblind personto our neighborhood.Vowed not toblind myself toforbidden graysor burning flowers.Vowed not topretend thatpeacocks are penguins.