The only thing worse than being blind is having sight and no vision. (Helen Keller)
My friend wears her mask over her nose, mouth—and eyes. I don’t comment. She’s blind. It doesn’t matter. I lead her to the hospital’s elevator and through registration. We wait. I suddenly realize
I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
Sun shines through pale beige shades half-drawn along ample windows. The walls wear the same color and light. I try to embrace the moment. The gift of sight. The reason why I give to my friend.
But I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
A medical assistant calls my friend’s name. Only patients are permitted in treatment rooms. I have time to think. To meditate while she meets with her doctor. Instead I bi-locate, tri-locate inside possibilities that will never be
because I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
I find a single scrap of paper. And write. Absorb the moment. What gift is happening now? I breathe in and out. Slowly. My thoughts. Focused one moment, gone the next
because I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
My friend returns. She leaves the aide’s arm and reaches for mine. Communication. Find the difference between sight and vision, want and need.
My friend and I talk. About the trivial, about memories that have lasted. “We’ve had a lot of red lights on this street,” my friend says. She is right. Aware, yet not stuck in the waiting.
My phone rests, messages on hold. Finally, I accept each bite of time. And swallow.
terrypetersen 