the man I am in love with is blind by birth and the first time he plucks a few dandelions growing out of the cracks in the pavement

in spring and asks ‘what color is yellow?’ as he tucks a lone strand of hair dancing with the breeze behind my ear, I catch his palm and let it rest gently on my warm cheek until my smile causes my eyes to crinkle and I say ’this is yellow’ I tell him yellow is how he tickles my abdomen in the middle of a conversation about why fries at McDonald’s are better than those else whereas we secretly lie with each other in my hostel room the sunlight streaming from the broken window in the corner right onto half of his face as the old fan whirrs slowly and makes the baby hair on his forehead dance like a delicate ballerina tiptoeing in her opening act

yellow is instinctively reaching out to hold his hands when the lights are off the simple intertwining of fingers before bodies the callouses in his palms, yellow is soft and charming like the way he wiggles his arms to get out of his sweatshirt, it is the smell of butter popcorn when he waits in the queue to buy movie tickets yellow is how he comes to a theatre and sits through three hours of chaotic sounds just because I want to watch a film with his arms in mine, it’s him wavy dancing on my bed when I’m crying and my burst of laughter right after

yellow is unadulterated joy in the simplicity of existence the grandiosity of everyday things emanating from something too secure to need validation like us so when he asks ‘what color is yellow?’ I tell him to write in Braille the happiest memory that comes to his mind and just when he’s about to put an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence I tap his knuckles and say ‘this is yellow.’

Describing the color Yellow to someone blind from birth

Vimal Sangam