MAD

I used to think the world was made of bright colors. Now it’s all gray. The wall behind me is the same shade as the clouds over the schoolyard, the same shade as the smoke that comes from Dad’s shop when he burns the scrap wood. People don’t notice when colors leave. They think things fade because they’re old. But I see it. I see the brown creeping into faces, into the corners of their mouths when they lie. I see the black drip from their eyes when they say they’re “fine.” There’s a sound the world makes when it’s getting sicker. It’s like paper tearing, real slow, in a quiet room. I heard it in class today when my teacher smiled too long. I hear it at night when Mom pretends she’s asleep before I am. I used to draw pictures of happy things. Now I just draw the shapes I see in the shadows. They always look back. One day, I think I’ll be all gray too. And when I am, I hope I don’t remember the colors.