When I was in preschool, I drew a picture of a mountain covered in evergreen trees. I delivered it to my parents proudly, but I still remember seeing their faces drop as they inspected it. “Ben,” they asked, “why are all the trees dead?”
I couldn’t read labels at that age, so I’d drawn the picture with whatever crayons looked right. The sky was a pale blue, the granite peaks a sharp black. But the green crayon was too light for the firs. I grabbed a brown because it seemed a better fit and unknowingly slaughtered an entire forest.
I wasn’t depressed, as my parents feared. I was color blind.