And the leaves were black, when the skies were brown. The skins were blue, the rain, was green. But yet he painted, that smart blind boy sketched, on any sheet he’d find. While we laughed behind his back, we knew; that he always knew.
Me and my friends were his only buddies. And his mother scolded us, which sounded oh so much like a plea by the way, when we handed a black crayon when he asked for a green one, thus darkened his leaves, while yellow dolphins swam in the purple sea. Percy was born blind, you see.
Go on, please ask, I know you will. How Percy would’ve known the shape of dolphins, if he was blind, did you say that? But we had toys you see! One particular toy had four wheels, ran on batteries, and was titled Ferrari. We handed the same over to Percy, said, “Check this Dolphin, Percy, this is how Dolphins are.”
While his mother scolded and pleaded.
Four years later Percy turned fourteen. Our pranks subsided, as his smart mind earned evidence. When Oil pastels replaced the crayons, we numbered little boxes, the fourth box in the row contained green, the eleventh carried black oil pastel sticks.
And we made sure he knew the colors. He knew damn well when the red sticks’ box lost strength. He knew damn well where blue was kept. He knew the little boxes by heart, that smart mind.
Yet on all his pages, the leaves remained black. When we scolded and pleaded, the leaves should be green, the sky, blue. He knew very well, mind you; he could tell the colors, boxes helped him till no end, he knew his colors well.
Yet on all his pages, his leaves remained black. Percy was born blind, but we couldn’t see.