Gray

Gray.
The Korean War.
My grandfather still remembers the day he had to hide.

The day he had to hide from people of his kind.

All people are his people. Everyone is family.

Yet we divide and splinter; we poke and we bleed.

His breath stiffens when he tells me this story. 

But a story must be told so it never happens again.

He recalls the grayness—like a paint of drear swept over. 

He saw gray in the eyes of those who tried to kill him.

He saw gray in the eyes of those he loved. 

His hands were gray from praying and his feet were gray from running.

Everything was gray.

Despite the war around him, all he could only think about his favorite red toy.

The red began to fade into a gray. 

He remembers the day the world turned gray.

I wish there was no gray in my grandfather’s life. I wish he could see color again.