I thought it would be a day – tomorrow will be three, and if everything works out, I’ll have my glasses back.
Without the lenses that put the world back in shape, my own poor natural lenses have had their way with perception. I’ve always been nearsighted. And astigmatic, which makes everything twist and shimmer. And with age, I’ve lost the ability to focus on text and other things close at hand.
So these days I’ve seen through prescription sunglasses, darkly. I hope people think it’s somewhat mysterious, and not just that I’ve been on a binge, when I wear the shades to shop.
I can’t read easily, a real handicap for a writer and editor, though if I squint and tilt my head I can manage a computer screen at three feet away. Like right now. A new novel is on the desk, waiting. I’d been meaning to read Isabel Zuber’s Salt but kept sampling book after untouched book from the stacks in my office. Meeting her at the North Carolina Writers Conference brought a spasm of guilt and put her book on the top of the pile.
So, stymied, I have sorted papers in my office.
I moved a gardenia bush that unlike its mate four feet away, refused to thrive.
I pruned and clipped and fertilized.
I’ve fretted about things undone, but this has been a good interruption in some ways. I’ve had to slow down. Return to doing simple hand-tasks that don’t require reading. I’ve listened more.
Tomorrow maybe I can see again.