• My mother once said to me, "Logan, colors are the hardest thing in the world to explain. Sure, they're there, but I can't tell you what they look like. How else am I supposed to explain what blue is other than that it's blue? I can't say that it's the color of the sky -- how do you know what color the sky is if you can't see it? I can't say that it's the color of the ocean -- how else are you supposed to know the ocean other than being able to feel it if you can't see?"

    I believed this all my life. I had been born blind, and so I had never seen anything. I used all of my other senses, depended on them, but it wasn't the same. I always felt like something was missing. A lot of the blind people who are interviewed or talked about on television weren't like me. They were optimists and maybe even a little insane. I had never had the greatest self-esteem, nor had I ever seen the glass half-full. It sometimes seemed like my life would forever be colorless.

    Many people had the thought in their mind that being blind means that all you see in front of you is a whole wall of black or white. No, I didn't constantly see a black wall or a blank space in front of me. I didn't see anything. It was as if my eyes weren't there at all, like I had no such thing as eyesight. I sometimes wished it was there, but other times, I forgot that it was even missing, however rare those moments were.

    One thing that I loved to do was paint. You might wonder how a blind person can paint, and I couldn't exactly explain it to you. I'd never believed that I created masterpieces -- and I never got anyone else's opinions because I never showed them to anyone. I'd had my little brother use a labeler that named things in braille and put the stickers on all of my tubes of paint. I could read what they said, but that didn't help me much. I really just picked up a tube of paint, read the name, and if it sounded like it could work, I used it. I was sure that the paintings weren't very good, but I enjoyed it, so I continued. As long as no one saw them, I didn't have to worry.

    A few weeks after I graduated high school, however, I heard a noise in the basement of my parents' house, where I kept all of my paint things. Curious -- and suspicious -- I climbed down the stairs silently and entered the room. After a moment, I called and asked who was there. The noise ceased and I heard light footsteps, along with a discreet swishing of fabric. "Are you Logan White?" The voice was female, with an accent I couldn't immediately place. I nodded. "I'm Vanessa Breton. My father works with your mother and they both wanted me to meet you. My own mother lives in England, though, and so I don't visit often. This was a good chance, and so Mrs. White dropped me off here. I was just exploring before you came down."

    I quickly walked over to her and grasped at her shoulders. Good, I hit the mark. I led her up the stairs and then locked the basement door. "Don't ever go into the basement again," I growled. I didn't bother explaining why, but she promised.

    Vanessa, of course, never kept that promise. It didn't take her long to discover my paintings, and when she confronted me about them, I told her to keep quiet and that no one else could ever know. I was sure that she would keep her word this time around.

    She didn't talk about it to anyone for the next few days. There was one time when she asked me what my two favorite colors were -- after I had explained to her that I only went by names, of course -- and said, "I prefer cerulean and seashell." Cerulean was the color that always was used to describe the sea, and the ocean had always been my favorite place to go. I loved the smell and the feel of the water and sand. Often, as I walked, I'd find little seashells that felt ridgey on one side and smooth on the other. That was the source of my other favorite color, seashell.

    I had no idea what the colors looked like obviously, but that wasn't what mattered. The names had drawn them to me. My mother had also said that the seashells were light, and the ocean dark. She believed that they made a wonderful contrast against each other, and I believed her. What reason did I have to doubt her, after all?

    It was only a week later that Vanessa left back to England. When she did, she took my heart with her. I sat around for a day moping before I realized that painting might help me feel better. I trudged down the stairs and into the basement. It was only minutes later that I discovered quite a few things missing -- all of my paintings and my two favorite tubes of paint.

    I could only come to one conclusion -- Vanessa had taken them. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself that what she did was wrong and that I should be angry, I couldn't make myself feel the hatred that I should have. I loved Vanessa; hate or anger was out of the question.

    I managed to buy more canvases and paint tubes, creating more paintings that replaced the old ones. It was years and years before I heard from Vanessa again, and I still had never recovered my heart. When my mother called me and told me that a letter had come in the mail from the Bretons, I called a cab and drove down to see her immediately. She read the letter to me -- as it wasn't in braille -- and I was instantly heartbroken. She had given my heart back in a simple letter, and had broken it in the process.

    The letter was an invitation to what was sure to be the biggest day in Vanessa's life. The woman I loved was getting married to a man named Andre Beaumont. I despaired for days, and then we heard even more shocking news.

    Vanessa's wedding colors were cerulean and seashell.