"Colorblind" by Counting Crows

Song: "Colorblind" by Counting Crows

Feeling: Sadness

Description: The song is "Colorblind" by the band Counting Crows. I've always thought the song had a sad mood to it. Especially when it says "I am colorblind," I think it means that you can't see any joy in the world, and I guess that's what sadness feels like sometimes. 

        The story is about a man whose son went to war and sends letters to him. I got the idea form a prompt a friend told me about, (She's awesome). Basically the prompt was to write a story about a man who had lost his son but you could not mention the son or his death. I hope I did an okay job with it. :) 

Story:

The letters came every two weeks.

            They were tucked into cold envelopes which were decorated with pompous stamps advertising their glory and pride.

            The letters were delivered to his door every other Thursday. Mail came every day every day but he barely bothered to go and check it, but letter Thursdays were special. Those were the days where the man would even wait for his mail. Silent in his arm chair, a cup of tea beside him and his eyes distant, his mind being called back by the slightest of noise, by the slightest indication that his mail had been delivered.

            Retrieving the letters was also a tradition. He wouldn’t let himself be too rushed, but he would walk himself slowly to the front door and open it up to the small pile of letters that would look up at him. He would pick them all up but only bother to read one. The others he would discard to the coffee table, while the special one he would carry it gingerly in his hands, as if afraid the paper might shatter under his touch. Although the paper was far from delicate. It was tough and thick, a faint yellowish tint to it and hard crisp corners, but to the man the letter written inside was as precious as the morning sun, and he handled precious things very seriously.

            The first few times he received the letters he would open them up right away, right on the spot, not even bothering to use a knife to cut away the envelopes seal but ripping it apart with his hands until his fingers could finally get a hold of the paper tucked inside it. The habit faded away. This didn’t mean he cared less about the letters, nor did it mean that he was less eager, if possible, his eagerness for the letters grew. But now he knew how to treasure it. He would force himself to really appreciate them. To fully take them in before opening them carefully and reading over them, taking them in word by word.

            He would never throw away the letters. They were not to be treated as regular mail. Instead they were placed back into their envelopes and tucked into a wooden cupboard to be treasured and well kept.

            On the same day in which he received the letter, he would get himself to work on writing one. His penmanship had always been meticulous, but when writing the words upon the letter his hand didn’t seem to move fast enough for his mind and soul who were spilling themselves onto the paper and his words would slant a bit. His letters would connect, the ‘h’s had long tails that dwarfed into the ‘e’s. His ‘s’ was a scribble and his ‘n’ would always end up looking a little like an ‘r’. But his penmanship didn’t matter to him. He only cared about his words which he made sure were just right before he would tuck his own letter into an envelope and decorate this one with stamps. He used bright colorful ones because maybe that would help conserve a little of the happiness. He didn’t know if the stamps helped, but they certainly didn’t hurt either.

            Sending the letters was a ritual in itself. He would walk to the post office his hat placed high on his head and a smile on his face. He would hand it to the man working the counter who would nod and place it into a slot. He would watch it go, his eyes wanting to follow it to it’s destination. His eyes wanting to see it’s destination, but that wasn’t possible, not right now.

            The first time the letter didn’t arrive on time it was a rainy September evening. He was in his arm chair, as he usually was on this particular day of the week, at this particular time. He heard the letters be delivered and he walked himself over to the door and opened it, but he didn’t find the letter he was expecting. Frowning he had gone back inside, thinking the whole while that it must have gotten lost in the mail. It must have. It must have

            But it didn’t come the next day, nor the day after that. Neither did it come two weeks later. The letters did not come. He knew it wasn’t the mailing system, but he didn’t want to face the truth either. He didn’t want to believe it, but once he saw the men outside his front door in their pressed uniforms and hard faces, he was forced to face it.

            They spoke in cold words. Their sentences held no real meaning, they held no truth, they were just a hard pressed routine, some thing they must do on automatic.

            “We’re sorry, sir.” They said as they walked away leaving him with another envelope which he refused to open. He knew it’s contents already, a signed letter printed in fancy type and a metal chain with a metal placard on which a name was printed. He didn’t want to see it.

            After that the world seemed to slow down. His home seemed to become a bit too large for him and his neighbors brought him flowers which he left to whither. The letters which he had kept cooped up in the wooden cupboard in fear of this day, saw the light again. But no knew letters came. No letters wrapped up in stiff cold envelopes and bandaged up with dark stamps ever came and worst of all, no letters ever left.

            And every two weeks on Thursdays he would sit on his arm chair a cup of cold tea, for he never bothered drinking it, beside him in hopes that somehow a letter would come although he knew they never would, and they never did.