I have kind of a special relationship with colors. I only know one other person in the world who sees them exactly the same way I do, and that’s my brother. We inherited the same gene for anomalous trichromatism from our maternal grandfather. Anomalous trichromatism is a kind of color-blindness, but color-blindness really isn’t a good word for it. I see just as many colors as you do. I just don’t see exactly the same ones you do, nor necessarily on the same objects.

I’m glad I have different color vision. Admittedly it can be a drag when someone wants to know what color something was that isn’t around any more to point to. “It was green. Or orange. It was really that color that’s a little bit green and a little bit orange,” doesn’t inspire confidence. Purple, as far as I’m concerned, comes in exactly one shade. Oddly enough, it’s the shade that K&B Drugstores in New Orleans chose as their signature brand color. All other shades of purple are just rumors, supposition, and variant names for blue.

On the other hand, I can spot stuff that is supposedly camouflaged like nobody’s business. Some woodchuck can be sitting quietly in a field of dead grass thinking to himself, “Hah, nobody can see me! I’m just as brown on brown as a ‘chuck can get,” when I walk by and say “Holy Cow, what’s that bright green lumpy thing out there in the middle of that field?”

And I really love those colors that I can’t tell what the heck they are. Many times I’ve been walking through the mall, marveling at how well-behaved everyone is, when from the very back of a clothing store a shirt or sweater will scream out, “Look at me! I’m so pretty!” and it’s always got some of those colors. And when I buy them and wear them, other people tell me it’s a nice muted color combination that they wouldn’t really have noticed, but they like it now that they see it.

So there you have it. I’m grateful for colors. Especially my colors.