Then it sank. And she went black again.
And I realized: she wasn't becoming a villain. She wasn't becoming evil. She was becoming void . Depression had bleached her of spectrum, leeched every wavelength until only the absence remained. Watching My Mom Go Black
“I’m still here, Mom,” I said.
I sat next to her in the dark. I took her cold hand—once the color of sand, now the color of slate. Then it sank
I started noticing the clothes. All black. Not mourning black, but erasure black. The purple blouse I loved? Gone. The floral dress she wore to my graduation? Buried in a trash bag on the curb. She said color "screamed." She preferred the quiet of ash. She wasn't becoming evil
“Don’t,” she whispered. Her voice was gravel. “The light hurts.”
The first sign was the silence.