The color of hope


She was wounded. Some of her wounds were only skin deep. Others ones had gone right through her core. Years of therapy, self reflection and rigorous study had turned most of those wounds into scars. They had made the world tolerable – life acceptable. She had learned to exist.

He was blind. His eyes had never seen the light. He trusted. Trusted his other senses. Trusted the world. Trusted his intuition. He knew himself. He accepted his condition and he embraced his life. His world wasn’t dark.

She did not trust. Not herself, and not the world. She accepted that about herself. She knew her limitations. Her world was dark. Void of color, it was black and white.

They met, in an elevator. Startled by his guide dog, she tripped over his cane. Didn’t glance up to see his dark shades. Nor did she responded to his apology. In fear and frustration, she tangled herself up in the dog’s leash. Feeling trapped, she curled up, expecting an attack, from the beast or the man.

She felt the dog, kneel lower and bring his head beneath her hand. He was soft. He looked up at her. His eyes, dark and friendly, he blinked. She felt her heart open up a little.

“Are you OK?”, asked the man. “I’m so sorry about this”. He reached to give her a hand. Only then she looked up and saw him. She didn’t say a word. It had been her fault.

The elevator doors opened and she ran.
A dog … That’s what I need …

Then she saw it. It was faint, but definitely there. She saw the color of hope.

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