Each morning I stand in good light and hold an Amsler Grid Vision Card about a foot from my eyes. I cover and close each eye in turn, and I focus on the center black dot with each eye in turn. Each morning I trust that all of the grid will remain clear outside the hard focal point of the dot. I am to call my doctor immediately if blind spots occur. Passive voice. If, suddenly, I cannot see parts of the grid, or if it begins to waver like water in motion or like a mirage created by heat waves.
I’ve worn glasses since second grade. My astigmatism prevented me from adopting contact lenses. With my glasses off, the world takes on a soft glaze. Cataracts are forming, slowly for now. My night vision has declined in acuity but not so much as to limit me to daylight driving only, a reverse vampiric effect I know is approaching, but I could not safely operate a vehicle at any time without them.
I taught all those years with my glasses on my desk. I often greet customers at the bookstore the same way and share breakfast with friends without them. They’ve always gotten in the way, separated me from faces. I learned how to read vocal expressions when I was very young, body language too. Perhaps my bad eyes taught me to listen and to watch and showed me how to go still.
My peripheral vision is still good with motion and shapes — a bird in the foliage, the shift of a low body loping against grasses. I devour books as I always have. Light and sky continue to entrance me. In a few weeks I’ll spend hours looking out over the ocean again. I try to take nothing for granted anymore.
