Knowing

“Strewn along the ground on a crisp autumnal day is sunlight torn from the star.”
– Yoodei_Mon

6 months ago, on my wedding day, my groomsmen gifted me with EnChroma °°°° glasses.

For those of you who don’t know, I am colorblind.

I told these kind, considerate souls – with reticence in my eyes and disappointment in my voice –

“Ohhh guys. I’m so sorry, but I have to manage your expectations. It’s possible nothing is about to happen.”

In contrast to those popular videos of men crying when seeing color correctly for the first time…

“I’ve tried these before, and nothing happened. I’m so sorry if I disappoint you guys. So…don’t get your hopes up.”

I put them on.

“slow saffron explosions – fires alight perennially, bursting gradually around a city”
– Yoodei_Mon

I was optically arrested. The rich, burgundy timber of the wall across the room – stretching from floor to ceiling – struck me in the face like a crimson synaesthetic chorus. It was one note; bass. Deep, vibrant resonance filling the room with visual warmth, but unassuming nonetheless.

I had simply frozen.

“Do you see anything?” one of my groomsmen eagerly asked

“yes.” My answer was almost a whisper.

What follows is a collection of pictures, and a piece I wrote specifically about yellow – the yellow that I did not know existed.

Nobody told me about yellow. Across from the Colosseum in Rome sits a man in a cheap lawn chair selling tchotchkes to tourists. Years of seeing that ancient stone structure have desensitized him to its majesty. It may as well be any road of plain asphalt. I did not see it.

Strewn along the ground on a crisp autumnal day is sunlight torn from the star. Fall, by adulthood, is such a commonplace that the leaves spark only acknowledgment. At worst, they are an irritation. Fallen verdant soldiers maturing into solemn, sage beauty fitting better for a ruby.

Lining streets on a fresh, fall day stand slow saffron explosions – and you all act so blasé. Fire still compels, but maybe partly due to power. But fires alight perennially, bursting gradually around a city. You drive by them disentranced, merely knowing they exist and failing to be awed. I did not see it.

Fluttering from a dark, imprisoning pit flits warm, amber gold borne from outside Plato’s cave. It is a cool glow to you. But to myself, deprived of that embrace for decades end to end, turmeric pillars of heat envelop my soul’s every hem.

Nobody told me about yellow. Ochre parchment manuscripts enfused with earthy richness. Floating fire lanterns kindling tawny ginger into the sparkling, sunny harbinger – bronze. Yellow’s ubiquity performs the opposite of banality. The dazzling, dancing beauty of its luxury adds alone. There is no compare. I did not see it.

You all see straw. A sullen flaxen dullness built into every tone. Don’t you see? There is no sand in sunlight – only explosive beryl heliodor, only glittering, glorious garnet.

If only you could begin anew. To see – again – shimmering lemon hide and soft, shining butter for the first time. Rolling daffodil hills infused with bumblebee yellow that I did not see. Pale, pallid caramel devoid of that magnificent explosive sunlight – straw that I did not know exuded chartreuse.