“I’m home!”

Hearing that familiar voice, I rush to the front door as fast as I can.

“Hi dad!”

“Hello Claire,” my father replies, calm and collected like he usually is. “I see someone’s very excited today.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Well sure, what is it?”

“What does the colour blue look like?”

My father thinks about this for a moment as I stand there in eager anticipation, waiting for the magic answer from his lips.

“It’s, well, rather difficult to explain in words. It’s a very beautiful colour though, one of my favourites, actually.”

He pauses for an instant, as if unsure of what to say.

“Perhaps you should ask your mom this time. I’ll give her a chance and pass on this one,” he adds in jokingly.

“But that’s exactly what she said! I was hoping that you could tell me, but never mind,” I answer back in disappointment. “I know you can’t.”

I turn away from him and make my way to the back of the house. I grope the walls in darkness, as I realise, only now, how painful it actually is, not being able to see. I know there is a wonderful world somewhere beyond this thick veil of blackness, but black is all I see, and nothing else.

It’s like being locked in your room, while all the other children got to go outside and play. Except no matter how much I hope or try, I’m never getting out of this room. And no one will ever be able to help change that.

I can never live and experience life as fully as everyone else, or see beyond the darkness that engulfs me so completely. Neither will I know what the colour blue looks like; only the overpowering black that surrounds me.

I feel ashamed, frightened, and angry with myself even, for being blind, sightless, visually impaired, or whatever you choose to call it.

I yank the back door open and sit on the porch, burying my head in my arms.

It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps nearing.

“Claire, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, daddy.”

“Come with me,” he says softly, holding me up by the arm gently, yet firmly.

I wipe my tears furiously with the sleeve of my blouse, as my father walks beside me silently. We walk on like this for some time, neither of us speaking.

“Do you feel that? The wind?” he asks, stopping abruptly.

I give a small nod as the cool air, like a soft handkerchief, brushes gently against my face. I wonder if my father is going to say anything else, but he doesn’t, and so we remain here, standing.

I begin to hear leaves rustling, and feel a light breeze wafting through my hair and fingers.

“Remember what I told you about the sky once?” my father says, finally. “It’s like a huge canvas above our heads, stretching as far away and as far above as you can see. It feels something like this up there.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“It’s blue, too.”

I try to imagine this, but I can’t. I tell him this.

“Blue is my favourite colour. It’s gentle, soft and beautiful. I can’t imagine the sky in any colour other than blue,” he replies.

I knit my brows slightly, not quite grasping his logic.

“What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to see the colour blue to know that it’s beautiful. Just like the wind that rushes through your hair, it’s there, you can feel it, and you don’t need to see it to know its beauty.”

We sink back into silence for the next few minutes.

“Then love is blue too, isn’t it dad?” I ask.

“Sorry?” he enquires, the puzzlement apparent in his voice.

“I can’t see the colour blue, and I can’t see love either, I know. But just like blue, I don’t have to see love to know it’s beautiful. It just is, I can feel it, and I know it’s there.”

He takes a while to reply.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.”

I embrace him tightly, and as I feel his tears on my back, I think I manage to catch a glimpse, just a small glimpse, of how the colour blue looks like.