Sight Is in the Eye of the Beholder

I still remember the sound of her rocking chair. 'Squeak, rock, squeak, rock.' Grandma wouldn't let Grandpa fix that squeak. She said it meant she was content. She would reach her hands into her little velvet purse and feel around for the little candies she had for me when I'd come. Even though she was blind, her other senses were right on top of it. She could hear Grandpa coming up the walk after a long day of work, she would smell when the roast was finished, and could tell by the touch when the baked bread was just right. Even though she had lost her sight she felt ever presence and more alert than when she had had her sight.

Grandma knew every little nook and cranny of her home and when her sight slowly dimmed she made it clear to remember every little thing that she once saw; the beautiful blue sky with the clouds breezing through, the little yellow finch's beak when it would open ever so slightly to sing out a little tune, and the look of her grandchildren's faces when they lit up after she had baked them a batch of oatmeal cookies. She etched it within her mind to enjoy the things that she would no longer be able to see. But she found that what she couldn't see she could still see in other ways.

Kittens Cats

She could tell when a blue sky was around by the feel of the sun on her face and she could now feel the yellow finch even more clearly than before. She also could feel the faces of her grandchildren from the sound of joy in their voices and the touch of their skin. She said she wasn't missing much. It was us who were missing out. She was using her real eyes. The eyes of the soul.

Sight Is in the Eye of the Beholder

Grandma taught me through her blindness how to see in other ways. She'd tell me to close my eyes and listen to the things that my eyes wouldn't let me hear. I began to realize that my eyes could be deceiving at times. When I closed my eyes a whole new world came open. One that I could hear and feel. Grandma helped me to realize that things are not always as they seemed.

She had a little kitten named Cottontail. Cottontail didn't have much of a tail and was the runt of the litter. Cottontail had a sideways walk and seemed a bit off. This little cat ran into walls and always missed the cat box. He hugged the wall when he walked and could never catch a mouse. He would wiggle his stub of a tail and pounce only to be four inches off. Grandma would hear the thud against the wall and say, "Cottontail you are just a good kitty getting mice for me!" Cottontail would wobble over to Grandma for a pat on the head and get back to work. Back in those days you didn't take an animal to the vet. I never saw Cottontail but I heard many stories about the little cat.

Grandma would feed him bits of fish from the table and then he'd curl up and sleep on Grandma's housecoat. She would pet him with her gnarled little hands saying, "Precious kitty kitty, precious kitty kitty." Grandpa told her that 'that cat isn't right in the head.' But Grandma would say, "Close your eyes, Grandpa. He loves, he purrs, he eats...he is just perfect to me." How could Grandpa argue with that?

Grandma is long gone now but if I close my eyes I can smell her rose perfume and feel those little gnarled hands reaching into her little velvet pouch to give me little round pieces of colored candy. She taught me that sometimes if you just close your eyes and 'see' a whole new world opens up to you because you are using the eyes within that really count.

Sight Is in the Eye of the Beholder