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Snapshots of the Blind
I.
Ruth, the blind woman I work for, leaves her television on for company. Every month I help her pay the bills. I move her index finger to the line on her check where she needs to sign her name. Sometimes she misses, and her signature trails off the paper. She always asks me, “How did I do?”
II.
On the evenings when his daughter is away, Richard’s house is dark. Blind since a hunting accident at age twelve, he has no need for light. When I mention I am visiting Charlottesville, Virginia next week, he says, “That’s a beautiful area.” I wonder if he remembers its beauty, or if he measures beauty another way.
III.
I see copies of "Poetry Magazine" and "Rolling Stone" in Braille at the Berkeley Public Library. They are oversized and white — no photographs, no advertisements, no color. "Poetry" makes sense, but "Rolling Stone" without photos? I want to sneak one out to show my daughters, but the librarian reminds me they are here for the blind.
IV.
I haven’t spoken with my neighbor since the presidential election. Last year at this time, we talked about the best kinds of flowers to plant before Thanksgiving. Now we avoid each other on the driveway; we stand at our kitchen windows and watch a thousand leaves spin and drop like small red kites against the blue, blue day.
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