They were very clear that I would not have to give up the colors moving forward. They always said it like that: Moving Forward, as though the strange sidestep, back-hop dance I'd been doing to stay alive didn't really count and I may as well have been standing still. From the time my eyes could see, all they wanted was the colors. The scarlet flash of a robin's breast sent me into gales of laughter before I could speak. I traced the blue-gray mirror of the river with my fingers before I learned to write my name. When I learned the words: sienna, umber, ultramarine, all I wanted was to hold them in my hands. Not to capture, they cannot be captured, but to embrace. Moving forward, they say, I may still get to see them from time to time. With how well my eyes and hands remember things,   I will find excellent work that may give me some free time to pursue my pastime. They always say that, "pursue", not knowing how true it is, that I chase the colors down until I am out of breath. I have little trust that they will wait for me.