Eyes to See

I stared at the ceiling.

If I closed my eyes,

When I opened them again,

What then?

The angles of the white ceiling

might never come back into focus.

I tried, but they closed.

Everything after a blur of color, sound, memory:

Bright pastel turquoise of scrubs, lavender gloves on too many hands to count

“We will try to preserve your sight.”

Red light of the laser

“If you don’t do this, you’ll lose all vision in the right eye.”

Dark brown hair of the surgeon pulled back, barely showing through the pale cap

“It’s twilight sleep—you’ll be awake, but you'll remember nothing.”

But I remember her olive brown skin holding something that glinted silver.

“She’s awake. It’s not working. Put her completely under.”

Anxiety, relief, gratitude, hope, then dark nothing.

I awakened.

Fumbled for my out-of-reach glasses.

Everything still a blur: faceless shapes in every shade of brown and peach and black.

Bleached ceiling, beige blanket, ebony and putty-colored machines monitoring every breath.

“It went well. Just one more surgery after this.”

I wanted more color than black, white, taupe.

I still do. I want all creation in its muddied chaos,

Its cacophony of colors and images.

I’ve tasted pain but also wild iridescence.

I have witnessed joyful fire, music, laughter, justice, light:

I will remember this, too.

I will awaken and drink in every shade and hue of life’s bliss.

And as long as I have eyes to see,

I promise, I will look.