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PICTURE PUZZLE OF A MIND WITHOUT A WINDOW

I'm blind. I always have been, but I don't really mind. I like to make up pictures, imagine things.

I can see my Aunt Margaret's face. And my sister, Jeanie's, too. I can see blue. I think I know what red is, since it's the color or blood and I have blood. It must be a warm color.

And I can make out shadows of green and yellow. Orange. I might even be able to see colors that most people can't. Since I make them up.

I make believe that I will wake up one morning and see. The doctors said that anything is possible. I do go to movies. One time at a theatre a person in front of me said that as the lights were going out that this process of dimming was like dying.

For a moment I thought that I had never lived, truly lived, and I cried. It's hard to explain.

I want to see. I want to live.

So I listen a lot. Really, and I can see mountains, and waterfalls. Once I thought that I could even see God.

And I can see whatever I want to see. I can see a silvery comet on the tip of a black universe.

But there are things that I can't see. I don't want to see them, I guess.

I can't see pollution disfiguring blue skies and trash floating down a peaceful river. But if I were able to see these things one morning, I would try to make them go away. You can see? Can't you? I just don't understand why you let these very ugly things happen. There are some things I can't understand.

I can't see. So I pretend a lot . . . and sometimes I imagine that I can even see God.

I want to see. I want to live. I want to go to the movies and see the movies. Picture puzzle of a mind without a window: open them, open the windows. Put the puzzle together.

But if you can't, I don't really mind, I'll just go on seeing God.

And I'll whisper when I talk to you. I'm blind. I'd pick up trash if I were able. Miracles do happen.

Put the pieces together. Please. Or just let me imagine things like I've been doing. Just make my job easier: make the pollution go away.

It's hard to explain. A dream. My dream to see, and since I can't really see, this is my only dream. I don't think that I've ever had a dream dream. The kind that is supposed to be recorded on the retina of an eye.

An eye? I have eyes, but God, they don't see, so I guess they aren't really eyes at all. I feel a strange bitterness; a jealousy. The cover is too heavy upon my mind. Curtain down. Forever eternal ever.

Thus I make my life a poem. I memorized some. A fragment of a broken life, me, born without eyes. Born with other eyes, though, ones that play funny games. Pretend-see. Pretend-live.

Pretend-cry.

Or just sometimes plain cry. Salt drops on the window closed. Please listen to me.

I can really see. Really. I don't need eyes to see. The sea. It doesn't have any eyes, it can't see, only sea. It's funny, a riddle from a blind person.

The doctors said that anything was possible. Neighbor-kids call me a freak. I call them freak right back, for they were born without a sense of decency. Want to trade?

Oh, I bet you do. I'll just go whispering when I talk to you. Dying. The curtains will go up. I think I'll see Heaven or Hell. At least one of these, for if there is no Heaven there most certainly is a Hell.

But maybe this life is Hell. After all, even potatoes have eyes. Needles have eyes.

But I keep on picturing things. Even God.

Puzzle. Keep on putting the pieces together. You'll learn the secret. Keep trying. If you still can't guess my secret, I'll tell you anyway. Really. Freak. Pretend-cry. Want to trade?

I don't have to whisper anymore. The game is over and you haven't won. Nope. I wouldn't let you. The answer is that I can see. The sea can sea. It's just that nobody else can.

I'm very special you know.

—Name Withheld, 12th

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