Outside, the world was perfect. How a world like this could exist – without flaws – was a mystery to me. The pine trees, looming above anything and everything, were dauntingly beautiful. The snow that fell in big, fat flakes was sharp on your skin and cool on your tongue. The crisp breeze slid through your hair and tickled the skin on your face, chapping your lips and chilling you, right down to the bone. The winter wonderland was classic beauty – sparkling, perfect snow, and trees greener than anything – it’s quite an experience, seeing something so illusory right outside your window. Who knew a world like this existed?
Inside the cabin, a fireplace warms the area around it. The crack of the flames as they lick the air above them is also something beautiful. I sit wrapped in a blanket that my grandmother once weaved for me, and its stunning colors stand out in the dull room. The cup of warm cocoa in my hands is long since forgotten as I sit – thinking about the world around me.
The world where everything is “Lydia-proof”.
They think, because I’m blind, that I don’t know of the snow on the ground, of it’s beauty. They think, because I’m blind, that I’m disabled somehow – I can’t feel a fire, I can’t see their angry expressions. They think, because I’m blind, that I am unable to maneuver around the house or get myself a cup of coffee. They think, because I’m blind, that I will never find someone to hold, someone to love.
I cast a sightless glance in my brother’s direction, the brother I love and hate at the same time. He isn’t aware that I can “see” him – curled up on the couch, looking at an old photo album. He has secluded me to this house, this jail – where I am “safe”, where I am “loved”. My brother is a successful man, he navigates swiftly through three worlds: the business world, where he has become CEO of a bank; the social world, where he met his ex-wife and current girlfriend; and my world – the blind world, the world of the disabled. His friends come over and see me, whispering quiet sympathies about both of us.
I used to hate it. I used to toss and turn in bed, sweaty and fretful. My world was full of a dark loneliness, where people looked upon me like a freak, where people pitied me when I didn’t want to be pitied. I used to curse at people, to knock over things and make it look unintentional. I used to cry myself to sleep, I used to take advantage of my brother’s so-called kindness, I used to be a hateful, terrible child. It wasn’t until I turned seventeen, when I realized that what I had was a gift.
I could see things that no one else could. A quiet woman in the corner of a bookstore – only I noticed that she wasn’t actually reading, wasn’t actually crying about her book on the holocaust. An obese patient on a medical TV show – only I could see beyond the physical, look into his mind and see all the regrets that went so far beyond weight. A man, walking down the street – he shuffles his feet and runs into me. Only I would think of stopping and asking him why he was so distracted, what was so wrong that he would not better compose himself.
I could look beyond the physical – beyond the weight, beyond the scars, beyond the things that other people couldn’t take their eyes off of. You don’t need eyes to see. The echoing in the fireplace tells me it is windy outside. The absence of a tapping foot tells me my brother is curled on the couch. The occasional sniffle tells me that he is crying.
I rise from the ground, graceful as anyone – but my brother jumps from his chair to help me. His watery voice pops the gloomy bubble of silence around the cabin. “Lydia, here.” He hands me my cane as I reach down for it. For once, I don’t resist his overly helpful grasp, just let him lead me to the kitchen.
Not being able to ever see the green on the trees, or my brother’s freckles has always been a throbbing heartache for me. My stomach churns as I hear someone exclaim, “Have you seen the trees today?” I will never experience the wonder of a tree changing colors for fall, or the mystery of a fog-covered lake, or even the comfort of my own smile. I feel like I have been given a half-life, one that is missing something vital. The world isn’t blackness – it’s full of brilliant colors, all shades of colors – but I will never see them.
But I remember the good. I will always, always remember the good – and remember that I can see things other people can’t. In a way, I’m a psychic – I can read minds when I can’t read a book. I can see a person… but not really. My “disability” will never restrict me – it will make me better.
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