Her Red Pashmina

After the accident, the sky lost its blue.

Without the bright cerulean or violent sapphire, the clouds shape shift across a blank, unchanging canvas.

During the collision, I flew through the car windshield, headfirst. It caused a glitch in my brain. Overnight, my world was stripped of its rainbow palette, leaving only a spectrum of greys—from light ash to deep charcoal.

Doctors say it may be irreversible. That I can have a normal life regardless. I should feel lucky to have survived. But they don’t know what it’s like to see everything reduced to shades of grey. It’s as if I’ve stepped into one of those artsy movies—a film noir, where it all feels dark, gloomy and dull.

Even Dad doesn’t get it. He thinks he can help by being my eyes.

“Maya,” he calls out, “the grass is pea green today. Must be that fertilizer I’ve been using.”

Or, “Maya, those bougainvillaea flowers are the brightest fuchsia I have ever seen.”

As if I can experience colour vicariously through him.

I wish it worked that way. But it’s impossible to find joy in a world of monochromatic sunsets missing their golden yellow gleam. Fields of drab, unpainted sunflowers, and oceans that forever appear stormy and serious. Oranges that aren’t orange and apples the same shade as concrete.

Dad suggests therapy. Says it would be good for me to talk to others like me. When he signs me up for group therapy at the Crescent Clinic, I agree to go just to get him off my back.

We meet in a poorly lit room and sit in a circle on hard plastic chairs that dig into my spine. The air in here is stale, and if I had to take a guess at the colour of the walls, I’d place good money on a cold white.

The therapist sits across from me, hands clasped together in her lap. Her hair is short and layered around her face, and her nose is pierced with a tiny stud that sparkles when it catches the light.

The woman to my right sobs aggressively into a tissue. She introduces herself as Sarah. The therapist coaxes her while Sarah tells us about her daughter. The gate that was left open by mistake. Finding her tiny, lifeless body floating in the pool. That day, Sarah’s world collapsed into black.

Steve goes next, but he doesn’t cry. His face is set in a permanent scowl, fists clenched tight at his sides. When he speaks, it comes out loud, forceful and peppered with swear words—about how unfair it all is. How the good ones die and the worst seem to carry on untouched.

Ever since his partner was killed in the line of duty, all he sees is red.

I nearly blurt out that red is better than grey.

The most interesting person in the group is Harry. Harry says he hears in colours. I find myself leaning forward to catch every word when he shares how thunder rolls in slow swirls of magenta, and raindrops on the roof land in purple splotches. Voices harmonise in liquid gold and laughter fractures into bright emerald prisms.

Fascinating.

Unlike me, Harry was born with his condition. I envy him. In a strange, topsy-turvy way, the world he lives in still holds colour.

Harry’s twin brother died in a house fire. As he talks about it, he twists his beanie between his hands, wringing it like he’s trying to squeeze out water.

Each night, Harry’s dreams are cut short by the taste of smoke in his lungs, and the screams that return as bursts of orange behind his eyes.

When the therapist gets to me, she probes me to share about Mum. It’s none of her business, so I keep my gaze fixed on the chipped floor tiles until she gives up and moves on to the next person.

I only remember fragments of that day. Mum singing out of tune to songs on the radio while I laugh at her. The screech of brakes. Her piercing scream before everything fades into darkness. Waking up in a white-washed and faded hospital room to Dad sobbing in the corner.

But that has nothing to do with why I’m here.

At the end of the meeting, the therapist asks each of us to return next week with an object that once belonged to someone we loved.

I dread this morbid show-and-tell. Try and get out of it by faking a headache, a stomach bug—anything—but Dad doesn’t budge. I give him the cold shoulder the entire drive over.

Now, all eyes are on me and the dusty cardboard shoebox balancing on my lap, hidden for months at the back of my closet.

“Take your time, Maya. Open it when you’re ready,” the therapist says gently.

My fingers hover over the lid, as if opening it might set something off. Jaw clenched, stomach tight, I slide it off slowly.

“Can you tell us what’s inside?”

Her red pashmina. The one I gave her last Christmas. I can still see us on the couch, wrapped in it together, sticky with melted marshmallows, mugs of hot chocolate warming our hands.

I lift it to my face, the soft fabric tickling my nose as I inhale deeply. It still smells like cocoa and woodfire.

Then, something feels different. I stare at the pashmina, my eyes taking in what my mind hasn’t quite caught up with yet.

“Crimson,” I murmur, almost to myself.

“Maya?” the therapist prompts softly.

The others are still watching in silence.

I squint at the piece of cloth in my hand, turn it over a few times.

“It’s…crimson.”

Startled, I look up.

The therapist is smiling at me, her lips a vivid, ruby red.

My gaze drifts past her, catching the cluster of tiny red hearts stitched into Sarah’s baby blanket and the flecks of red ink in Steve’s tattoo. Then, Harry’s beanie, a dark cherry—no, maroon.

I let my lips curl into a smile.

Red is better than grey.