What can time do with paint?

Truth is—nothing changed about almost everything.

The white paint Mr. Ben put on my room’s wall is still white. I know it was white, I was there when he was doing the layers. Mom was with me too, but she couldn’t remember if it was white.

“Are you blind? Mom! Den is stupid! She’s saying our walls are white! Moooom! I think she’s color blind!” Joei, my six-year-old younger sister, cries and runs to Mom.

My walls are white, I’ll stand with it. The years made it look different now, gray. Am I wrong? Should I consider the time and the changes that happened over the years?

Should I then agree that time can change the truth?

Say, if I agree to this petty little thing;

- Joei will stop yapping about it, therefore, I shall have peace, at home at least.

- If I insist, Mom won’t say anything, how could she? She can’t remember. Due to old age or a well-acted memory impairment, she won’t speak. I know Mom, she won’t want any more trouble added about anything and anyone.

- Dad is the only one who speaks for me, and he’s long gone.

There are things I can’t say yes to. Time can change the truth, hell no. My walls are white, even if Joie shouts it’s not.

Color is a very important thing, you don’t see how much it is yet. Black is black, and white is white. Black can’t be white, though they can mix. They can mix.

I don’t mind a rainbow colored wall, but I know my walls are painted white.

My walls are painted white.

“Den, you stubborn little kid. The eyes can see. Always—always.” — Mr. Ben laughed.