Ten years ago, we woke up, and everything was black and white.
No-one knows why. The colour just faded away.
Except for one flower. One single stem.
It’s red like sunsets, red like danger. Blood and velvet and roses and wine.
It was found a few years after the fading and placed, with much fanfare, in the State Museum.
My kid, Katie, has never known colour, so I took her to see it. We waited in line for hours, and suddenly it was there. Shining, brilliant. I blinked away tears.
Katie screwed up her nose. “Eww,” she said. “That’s disgusting.”
For anyone who’s read my longer piece Your Life, in Black and White – this was the story I originally had planned, but couldn’t work out how to tell.