I'm standing in the driveway. Beach is walking the edges.
She taps a stick on a rock and asks, "What color is that sound, mom?"
I turn to look at her; eyes shut, face to the sky.
Almost as if she believes if she tries hard enough she could do it for me.
"It's not loud enough for me to see it."
She tries again striking the trunk of a dry tree.
"Sorry, kid." I say, "I can't hear the colors today. "
Today I can't even see them.