I wasn’t born blind, but it must have happened when I was very young. All I can really remember are simple shapes, primary colors, the face of my mother before she went away. The rest of my life I’ve been lost in the dark. I press my hands against the walls, searching for direction, but for all I know I’m just going in circles, tracing nowhere again and again. I probably haven’t ever really moved at all.
When I met you, I needed you more urgently than anything; more than air and motion, warmth and reason. I needed you more than I needed myself. I used you. I became more foolish and selfish than I had ever been before, even more of a worthless recluse. I couldn’t learn. I cut myself open because I thought the light had been locked away inside my chest. When I was bleeding in the field, you held my hand and kissed my tears away. That’s the last thing I remember. I can’t see you, but I know you’re still out there, somewhere. You have to be.
I heard your voice on Sunday morning, warming me awake. I couldn’t understand what you were saying, but I could feel your fingers dragging me up to somewhere else, telling me to meet you there. I fall from my bed and press my hand against the wall to follow you. There’s a light in the distance, a pinprick through the black curtain. It’s the first thing to cross my eyes in years. I don’t know if it’s real. The sound of your footsteps is pushing me towards the light, letting me know that it’s still there. I keep moving. Someday I’ll see again. I owe it to you.
Thank you. I love you.