"It's okay Annabear. I'll be back before you know it."
When I dream of him I always see the reflection of my pale grey eyes flecked with gold in his older face. I feel the fierce cut of the winds and the smell of hot blood clogging my nose. My dreams always have a special substances, something real life can't recreate. Lights, textures, smells streak like brush strokes in paint across my subconscious.
Sometimes they are thick as molasses.
Others faint and thin like watercolors.
My dad always said I was born to hear the colors of the world. It was silly and something I never fully understood. I just figured one day it would make sense. Maybe I'd wake up one morning, look down at the inks embedded into the cells of my fingers and it would dawn on me. I'd run to his and mom's room and he'd smile. He'd kiss me and call me what he always does.
Annabear.
"It's okay Annabear. I'll be back before you know it."
Colors. So many colors.
I was born to hear color.
The irony of the statement my father made is when he died my love of color died with him.
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