The Boy Who Saw a Rainbow

Almost everyone in the world didn’t see color. Until Zahaa. Zahaa was not like everyone else. He saw color in everything while everyone else only saw things and economic value. No one else saw the leaves changes from viridian to a middle-green-yellow to autumn xanthic to dark-carrot-orange to rufous and then a burnt brown.

Zahaa realized his talent one morning, on a walk to school with his mother. She was holding his hand when he saw a rainbow. It was a swash of color so breathtaking he stopped watching.

His mother had looked at him impatient, “You need to get to school.”

He pointed at the curve or colors, “What’s that?”

She had stared where his finger pointed and then back at him. After a few moments, she rolled her eyes, “The sky. You know that.” He was going to try again, but she tugged him lightly, “You’ll be late for school. Hurry up, dear.”

He asked his classmates if they saw the curve of colors and they all looked at him quizzically. No one seemed to see it so at recess he asked his peers what color their shirts were, their pants, their, shoes. They all shrugged. One boy who was retying his shoes had said, “What is a color? These shoes are imported.” The rest soon chimed in. Mine are made with Velcro. My mother had them customized with my name. My uncle made them with vegan leather and silk.

He listened to them droll on until recess ended, then his day continued like normal, and he didn’t ask anyone else about color. When he got home, he dropped his backpack to the floor. With the zipper half open and the bag tipped over, his things fell out. Unceremoniously, he trips over a little black book. Who could have placed it with his things? Opening it to see who it could belong to he’s stunned to find it addressed to him, “Write out all the colors you see and share them with the world.” The book felt so large and weighty in his young hands.

Rather than ask his classmates the next day, or tell his parents, he grabbed a pencil and began to note down every color he’s ever remembered. He started with the hazel of his own eyes, the sepia of his skin, the mauvelous of his tongue. He documented every color that surrounded his life. The eburnean kitchen tile floor, the rouge of his mother’s favorite lipstick, the obsidian of his father’s briefcase. The next day, he walked behind his mother on his way to school and wrote down the coquelicot of poppy flowers and smaragdine grass on that spring day. For years, he wrote in that book until he reached the end.

While it had once been bigger than his hand, his fingers now wrap about the book with ease. The book had worn out, more of a black coffee than the original new black of the book. There was never a moment over the years where he thought of what would happen when he reached the last page. The person who gifted him the little black book still remains anonymous, and he hasn’t a clue who to share the book with. It has been his secret for so many years. An emptiness fills him as he writes the last color entry that can fit in his little book. No color could own his heart, every color as beautiful as the next and last but the book could only fit so many colors.

When his father calls him down for dinner, he leaves the little book open on his bed and heads to the kitchen. He sits in the chair opposite his parents. He’s already noted the silver chalice of their aging hair, but he stares at them for a beat longer trying to find a color he may have missed.

His father clears his throat, “You’re a grown man now son.”

“I guess.” Zahaa says reluctantly.

“No guessing. I’m telling you a fact.” His father constitutes, “The world does not wait around for boys to look up from their notebooks and useless scribbles. You need to figure out how to become a responsible man.”

“Baba, I know. I just need to figure some things out. I don’t sit about doing nothing. I’m discovering.”

His father makes a sound of dismissal. His mother interjects, “You don’t even tell us what it is you write. Maybe if you shared with us? Maybe then we could understand.”

The word share works like a light bulb to his mind. He’s supposed to share his findings to the world, like any researcher would. Without a word of explanation, he rushes to his room, nabs his book and quickly makes his way back to his parents. The earlier emptiness receding as he hands them the book.

“I actually just finished filling this book out today.” Zahaa says proudly, “I have so many more colors to add but it’s an amazing thing to have found so many already.”

His father raises a brown, “What did you find?”

“Color!”

“What?” His father glances to his mother, “What is he talking about?”

“Color.” Zahaa tries again, “The essence of life everyone completely ignores.”

“If everyone is ignoring, why are you wasting your time with it?”

“Baba, just read the list.”

Zahaa’s father gently picks up the book from the table. He flips through the pages slowly as he reads each word, his brow furrowed in concentration. Zahaa’s mother peers over her husband’s shoulder, reading along as well. Their faces melt from skeptical to curious to entranced. They read through and Zahaa stands there awkwardly in wait.

“What made you start this?” His mother asks.

“Remember when I was ten, you and I were walking to school, and I saw a rainbow.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t see the rainbow. I pointed it at you, and you looked at me like I was wasting time.”

“I’m sorry dear.” His mother says, her voice full of remorse, “I was clearly missing something then.”

Zahaa shrugs, “It wasn’t just you. No one else saw it, no one else understood except for the stranger who gave me the book.”

“Still,” His mother goes on, “It must have been terribly lonely.”

He thinks before saying, “No, actually. It wasn’t lonely because I found comfort in all the colors and that one day I’d share them.” He chuckles, “Today started off so normal. I didn’t think today would be that day.”

“I’m glad it is. I’m glad you showed us.” His mother ribs his father.

Zahaa’s father nods, “Yes. We are so proud that you found a passion.” He clears his throat, “But, this won’t pay bills.”

Trying not to let his father’s words deflate him, Zahaa sighs, “I don’t know. I could find a way. You and mom work, day and night, and you don’t seem to love your lives.”

“Loving life comes second to a roof over your head and food in your stomach.”

His mother adds, “How about you use the next week to tinker around with ideas and see what paths really fit that maybe align with um,” She pauses, “aligns with color.”

“A week.” His father agrees.

Zahaa is sure it won’t be enough, but not one to think in only white and black, he goes to bed dreaming of razzmatazz success. It really should be no surprise that the next day when Zahaa is at the library making copies of his book. A woman walks up to him and lifts a page, “Are you going to be done soon?”

He flushes, “Sorry. Yeah, you can have it.” He points to the paper, “You can actually keep the paper too if you want.”

“What is it? I just see nonsense.”

“No. It’s a list of colors.”

“Colors?”

“Yeah.”

She looks at him closely, “Zahaa?”

He stutters, “Y-yes?”

“Oh my gosh you did it.”

“I did.”

She shakes her head, “Color me surprised. How many colors did you find?”

“I’ve only written 20,000 so far.” He shakes his head, “Who are you?”

Rather than answer she asks, “What’s your number?”

He tells her before really processing his actions, but before he can argue, his phone dings: $20,000 has been sent to your account.

“You don’t even know me, why are you doing this?”

“I figure a dollar for every color should be enough since I asked you to fill up that journal.”

“Were you in my class?”

“I was in the back. Heard you gushing about a streak of colors and I wanted to know more, but figured you needed to learn more first.”

“Why give me money?”

“So you can find me more colors.” She says simply before turning to walk away.

He follows after her, “Wait. At least help me.”

“I can’t see the colors.”

“But the first step is wanting to.” He shakes his head, “Actually, the first is telling me your name.”

“Eadim.”

He holds out his book, “Okay Eadim, let’s go collect some color.”