Troped

Able locks the door to his tiny room. He sits on the floor, the only other option being the bed, and takes off his shoes, one with a much thicker sole than the other. He rubs his crippled foot tenderly and closes his eyes. What are you dreaming Able? Most of the time he sees the color white. He dreams of swimming in a sea of white like milk—not the gray syrup that they drink but a much brighter color. He cannot see it but he knows it is there. He knows it is there because there are other colors he has seen, colors that no one knows about.

He looks carefully around and listens for a moment. His father has by now sat himself in the chair in the living room and will remain there until dark, contemplating his curses. So Able reaches under his bed and removes a linen pillow case. One by one he removes his brightly colored mistakes. They are orange and green and violet and pink and as he squeezes each one with love they variously spin, bounce or roll about the floor, bumping into the walls of the tiny room.

Holding his knees to his chest he watches the brightly colored mistakes bound about him. He smiles and closes his eyes and tries to dream of swimming in white, nothing but white—and for just a moment he is far beyond the radiowaves.