hope I can see the light skew — willow/yahel

There’s a sound to hesitancy. In the shuffle of his feet across the padded carpet. In the beats of silence after I speak, where he regards me curiously. All of these cues I collect and interpret, for better or worse, and I think he might want to leave. I wouldn’t blame him, or stop him. But even if he wants to be far away from this room as badly as I do, he presses forward under the guise of responsibility and comes closer.

I don’t flinch as I register the sound of a book resting on the table. Want to laugh at the prop, at its uselessness in a room of blindness. I know why he does it, though. There’s an unspoken language on how to interact with the world. You walk on the right side; your guide walks on the left, holding onto your non-dominant arm so you can feel out your environment more confidently. Other people feel obliged to make as much noise as possible when approaching, so as not to startle you, but the truth is I heard them opening the door from twenty metres away.

I’m still figuring out all of these rules. And I know there’s more lessons to come. I know that’s why he’s here – to make it a little easier for me.

So why do I insist on being difficult?

“Hold out your hand.”

“Do I get to know your name first? Or is that off-limits?”

It was a strange arrangement. All kept very under wraps, for some peculiar reason. Maybe the kid had a reputation to maintain, but it felt almost insulting to have to be kept a secret. The first other blind kid I’d known, and I wouldn’t even get to know anything about them? Seemed a little unfair.

Well, actually, that’s a lie. There was another girl I knew, a few years older than me, with congenital blindness. Their house in the middle of town was one of the first places dad visited seeking answers after my diagnosis. If anyone knew what to do, it would be the Graingers. But even they had given up hope of a miracle.

She was born that way, dad had told me. The family had wasted too long trying to cure her. There simply weren’t enough resources in Three to fund the endeavour. I still wonder what’s the worse of the two evils: to have known the world and to lose it, or to never have had it at all?

I try to place the boy’s voice, but it’s unfamiliar to me. Just another faceless stranger who I may or may not have known, before. I try not to dwell on the way that makes me feel – off-balance, unsettled, like I’ll never have the upper hand on anyone ever again. Instead, I hone in on the empty spaces of the room where words don’t reach, and map out where his face would be. Where it connects to his neck, his torso. I trace an imaginary line down his arm to the palm of his hand, wanting to be the first to make contact, just to prove a point, I don’t need your help.

Too bad I miss my mark, overshooting embarrassingly and grazing against his elbow instead. It’s only a quick recalculation to find his fingertips and rest my own clammy hand lightly against his, though.

See? I don’t need help.