Blind eyes see as clearly at night as during the day.
28/10/06 21:28
I am
blinded as the two points of light approach me with
increasing speed. They become audible as a swirling,
windy sound that is building every moment. They come
are brighter and more blinding, louder and closer,
until in a mess of wind and diesel exhaust, the old
bus rushes and rumbles past.
The freezing air fills my lungs in raspy breaths while my feet struggle against my bicycle pedals. I have never understood why cold air always causes my breathing to sound so harsh like this. It makes it hurt, too. It feels like I am overfilling my lungs like balloons filled too much, stretched too thin.
The night is so dark. It’s so cold and clear, I’d love to be sitting somewhere with a jacket, drinking something hot or in a car driving with the windows down and heater roaring. But I’m struggling up a hill in a t-shirt, and I’m shivering despite the physical exertion. And my breath is raspy and painful, and I hate that feeling. It reminds me of my track class when we used to have to run so far on those cold days and my lungs burned like this back then, too.
In my head I make plans for the night. I want to eat something really good, and tonight I’m willing to pay for the expensive tacos. I’ll go to Checo’s. I need to find some money somewhere, because I think I’m out. I want to listen to music too and put a jacket on. And then I’ll read a John Steinbeck book. I also need groceries and chapstick, but it’s almost 11 and I don’t remember if the grocery store is open this late. I realize that this is far too much to begin at 11. I’ll see what I feel like doing when I get home.
I have almost reached the top of the hill. It’s leveling out now and the strokes of my pedals are increasingly lighter. Across the street in the plaza a young girl is walking arm in arm with a man who I take to be her father. She’s probably about 10 years old. The father isn’t walking quite right…it takes me a moment to realize that he is blind. An even younger child of less than 5 years of age follows behind the pair. As they pass under the yellow streetlight, the man’s foot finds a spot where a brick in the sidewalk is missing, and he stumbles. He falls to his knees and then falls on his side. His face wears an expression that you don’t see often in everyday life. It is lit and by the light above him, and the man looks scared. His brow is furrowed in something like disappointment or anger, but there is pain there too. I move towards them as the child is futilely pulling on his arm. He lives his whole life like this, I realize. This isn’t just tonight. Not just today, or this week. This is his life.
My bike clatters to the curb, and the smallest child startles. I apologized for scaring her as her wide eyes searched me, and I asked the older daughter to excuse my interruption of her efforts. She stepped back, also staring at me with obvious surprise that looked more like fear. The man moved on the ground but could not lift himself. I hate looking so different, that everyone I speak to is left speechless. Why can’t they see that I’m just the same? I place my arms under the blind man’s, and count to three. On three I lift him to his feet, but all of his meager weight is still on my arms. I hold him there and wait as he finds his feet under him. The daughters watch in awe or fright, on the edge of where the light falls. The man takes his weight upon his feet, while he turns slowly towards me. I am still holding him steady, and he moves with every movement I make with my arms. He still isn’t balancing on his own. With both hands, he holds my arm as his clouded eyes search in their darkness for my face. He is maybe 40 or 50 years old, but I am looking into an old man’s eyes. He is worn and tired; this life has used him up too fast.
I ask if he is alright, and as he replies that he is the daughter comes and takes his arm again. She turns him, watching me still with something like suspicion as they slowly begin to walk away. I return to the darkness where my bike lay on the curb, and as lift it I hear an old man’s voice weakly break the silence: “Dios le bendiga.”
The freezing air fills my lungs in raspy breaths while my feet struggle against my bicycle pedals. I have never understood why cold air always causes my breathing to sound so harsh like this. It makes it hurt, too. It feels like I am overfilling my lungs like balloons filled too much, stretched too thin.
The night is so dark. It’s so cold and clear, I’d love to be sitting somewhere with a jacket, drinking something hot or in a car driving with the windows down and heater roaring. But I’m struggling up a hill in a t-shirt, and I’m shivering despite the physical exertion. And my breath is raspy and painful, and I hate that feeling. It reminds me of my track class when we used to have to run so far on those cold days and my lungs burned like this back then, too.
In my head I make plans for the night. I want to eat something really good, and tonight I’m willing to pay for the expensive tacos. I’ll go to Checo’s. I need to find some money somewhere, because I think I’m out. I want to listen to music too and put a jacket on. And then I’ll read a John Steinbeck book. I also need groceries and chapstick, but it’s almost 11 and I don’t remember if the grocery store is open this late. I realize that this is far too much to begin at 11. I’ll see what I feel like doing when I get home.
I have almost reached the top of the hill. It’s leveling out now and the strokes of my pedals are increasingly lighter. Across the street in the plaza a young girl is walking arm in arm with a man who I take to be her father. She’s probably about 10 years old. The father isn’t walking quite right…it takes me a moment to realize that he is blind. An even younger child of less than 5 years of age follows behind the pair. As they pass under the yellow streetlight, the man’s foot finds a spot where a brick in the sidewalk is missing, and he stumbles. He falls to his knees and then falls on his side. His face wears an expression that you don’t see often in everyday life. It is lit and by the light above him, and the man looks scared. His brow is furrowed in something like disappointment or anger, but there is pain there too. I move towards them as the child is futilely pulling on his arm. He lives his whole life like this, I realize. This isn’t just tonight. Not just today, or this week. This is his life.
My bike clatters to the curb, and the smallest child startles. I apologized for scaring her as her wide eyes searched me, and I asked the older daughter to excuse my interruption of her efforts. She stepped back, also staring at me with obvious surprise that looked more like fear. The man moved on the ground but could not lift himself. I hate looking so different, that everyone I speak to is left speechless. Why can’t they see that I’m just the same? I place my arms under the blind man’s, and count to three. On three I lift him to his feet, but all of his meager weight is still on my arms. I hold him there and wait as he finds his feet under him. The daughters watch in awe or fright, on the edge of where the light falls. The man takes his weight upon his feet, while he turns slowly towards me. I am still holding him steady, and he moves with every movement I make with my arms. He still isn’t balancing on his own. With both hands, he holds my arm as his clouded eyes search in their darkness for my face. He is maybe 40 or 50 years old, but I am looking into an old man’s eyes. He is worn and tired; this life has used him up too fast.
I ask if he is alright, and as he replies that he is the daughter comes and takes his arm again. She turns him, watching me still with something like suspicion as they slowly begin to walk away. I return to the darkness where my bike lay on the curb, and as lift it I hear an old man’s voice weakly break the silence: “Dios le bendiga.”
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