Prompt from Twitterlit: "The sky is white"

Staring out the window I think, this must be what it is like to be colorblind. The fog has washed away every ounce of color. Snow covered the grass, the pavement is wet and looks black and gleaming. The twisted branches of the bushes and trees in the field are a dark grey, reaching towards the heavens. The sky is white, dense as the batting from grandma’s quilting. It all looks a bit like a slightly out of focus Ansel Adams print.
The fog had been edging its way across since before the dawn, swallowing up the neighbor’s farmhouse and barn. Next it boiled over the stonewall along the furthest edge of our property and the apple orchard was soon to be absorbed.
My hands are like ice, my heart like a stone and in the greyness of it all even the colors in the room seem to have bled out, now only a shadow of what they once were. I wonder, I wonder if it would be different if you were here. You always seemed to bring a brightness to the place you were occupying. But you are not here, and you will not be back. Word came this morning that you have been killed half a world away. I wonder if this fog is here because you are gone and I am imagining that in London it is foggy too. Perhaps someone there knows that it is because a little bit of color has died in this world. Surly anyone who spent anytime with you noticed the brilliance that shone about you. Colors were vivid and vibrant around you. Like an opal revealing a fire in the midst of a milky white stone.
I hear Mother stirring in her bedroom and wonder how she’ll take the news. She will see the fog and know, probably even before I tell her. We will miss you.