There was one surgery. Then another.
But the doctors couldn’t save my vision.
The darkness swallowed everything.
At first, I thought it was temporary.
I’d lie in bed in the morning and wave my hands in front of my face and wait to see them. I’d tell myself, Today. Today it’ll come back.
I’d wait.
I never saw them.
Weeks turned into months. My mother took me to specialist after specialist. I learned the smell of every waiting room in our city. And eventually, somewhere around Christmas, I understood that the damage was permanent.
I remember the exact moment I knew. It was Christmas morning. My mom put a present in my lap and said, “It’s from Grandma. It’s a book.” And I held it and felt the smooth cover and the corners, and I realized I’d never read a book with my eyes again.
