Becoming Blind

When I saw him for the first time, he was already gone. Somehow being able to see made him less real to me. When I was blind, it was easier for me to imagine that he was standing right next to me. I quickly learned that because I had gained one sense, I’d lost another one. From then on, I regretted my decision to have the surgery.

My days were lonelier and less colorful then they had been. I spent all of my time in my room. My nurse took care of me, but I refused to see my parents or anybody else. I often had to close my eyes to remember the way things used to be.

He would take me places. Leading me by the hand, he showed me the difference between nature and the city, between sun and rain. He never made me feel like I was missing out on sight. Instead, he made me feel as if I was gifted.

I was forever haunted by the memory of the first time he kissed me. He found me outside crying in the rain, but he noticed my tears. He held my face gently in his hands, and when our lips parted, he whispered, “You don’t need to see.”

But when he wasn’t around I felt weird and out of place, so I decided I would have the risky surgery that would possibly allow me to see. When I left to go to the hospital, he kissed me goodbye and told me not to worry; everything would be okay.

He had been wrong. I made it out of the surgery with my sight, but when I came home to recover, he never came to visit me. The first thing I saw clearly was his grave, and every day I wondered if it would have been different if I hadn’t been at the hospital.

Now all I had was a picture of a face I didn’t know.