And on the sixth day it was decreed that all color, hue and chroma would be banished from the world.
It was raining. Again. Not hard, just a little cold drizzle. Andy drew his jacket a little tighter and frowned.
Why was he here?
The kids had made him come. They said he’d enjoy it. Steven, his grandson, made the arrangements and was here with him, but he wished he was anywhere but here.
“Hey Pops, look at that. I’m sure this was standing before any Englishman set foot in America. It might even be older than that place where you raised Dad.” He smiled broadly at his joke.
Andy continued to frown. He knew Steven was trying, but it was useless. Even the old jokes about the house on Cleveland street rang dull, colorless in Andy’s mind. The myths and legends of the 1950s, seen almost as black and white reruns of the Donna Reed show or Leave it to Beaver had help to shape Steven’s childhood, but they had moved out long before he was even born.
For a moment he resented Steven’s intrusion on his world. He did not want to be here.
Continue reading at Trent’s World