Black curtain

Mom said this would be a good idea. She said I need to talk to people. She said I look depressed. But, looks can be deceiving, can’t they? I adjust my black shades on my nose, which seem to be heavier than they should, really. My palms are sweaty from holding my cane which I refuse to keep aside even though I’m sitting on a stool. I know where I am only by the smell of the familiar aroma that is dancing from the kitchen. I can hear chattering around me, but I don’t catch a word until I hear my name in the conversation, someone says, keeping a firm hand on my shoulder, “How are you now?” It’s my aunt’s voice and I think, “My eyes just stopped functioning, how do you think I am?” but I don’t let the words escape, instead I swallow them up, “I’ve been better” I say. I hear her move in front of me and drag a stool, she settles down right next to me, so close that her knee touches mine every time she moves even slightly.  I feel uncomfortable sitting there, I feel abnormal in my own skin somehow like my brain is with me but I’m in someone else’s body. I guess that’s just what being blind feels like, right? My personal black curtain in front of me makes it hard for me to try to concentrate on anything else. I wonder what other people look like when they are laughing, I wonder what kind of hand gestures they are using, I try and think about how many other people might be sitting alone right now. And then I think about all those people who might be staring at me, wondering what it must feel like to be blind, feeling sympathy for me and I sink a little more into my skin. It’s funny how you depend so much on all your other senses when your eyes aren’t being eyes. Simple things like smell, touch and sound begin to give life to everything around you. Being blind is supposed to have made me lose something, but instead all I could feel is the gain of my other senses. This thought somehow makes me feel more powerful among all the people I am sitting with.

Naqiyah Hasan