Blind and afraid of the dark
She squeezes her eyes closed. Over and over again she tells herself in a frightened whisper that it is only a long night. A very long night.
She will not walk-she cannot. Ages of terrified stillness have left her withered. She moves little, unwilling to disturb the darkness. Afraid to awaken. . . what?
What do I fear in the dark? I don’t know. I have never felt the darkness that the blind know. I breathe softly as I watch her.
Her long fingers clutch a radio, buzzing music that only she can hear. Music from the distant past. Her lips move wordlessly with the music. A comfort.
I used to love to dance, she told me. I was a wonderful dancer.
Beside her is an aging photograph of a smiling young girl that hints at the aged face on the pillow. A picture of a far away time of smiles and sunlight and dancing. A picture of a different lifetime. A different universe.
What can I do for her? What could I say to dispel the darkness? There are tears on her white cheeks.
Good morning, Sunshine.
My words are empty. There is no morning for her today.
Who is it.
Savannah. I have your breakfast.
What is it. Her voice is an anxious whisper.
It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want it.
When I leave the room she will hug herself in daytime nightmares. She does not want to feel the warmth of the sun in unnatural darkness. She does not want my unfamiliar touch.
What can I do? She is blind and afraid of the dark.
She will not walk-she cannot. Ages of terrified stillness have left her withered. She moves little, unwilling to disturb the darkness. Afraid to awaken. . . what?
What do I fear in the dark? I don’t know. I have never felt the darkness that the blind know. I breathe softly as I watch her.
Her long fingers clutch a radio, buzzing music that only she can hear. Music from the distant past. Her lips move wordlessly with the music. A comfort.
I used to love to dance, she told me. I was a wonderful dancer.
Beside her is an aging photograph of a smiling young girl that hints at the aged face on the pillow. A picture of a far away time of smiles and sunlight and dancing. A picture of a different lifetime. A different universe.
What can I do for her? What could I say to dispel the darkness? There are tears on her white cheeks.
Good morning, Sunshine.
My words are empty. There is no morning for her today.
Who is it.
Savannah. I have your breakfast.
What is it. Her voice is an anxious whisper.
It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want it.
When I leave the room she will hug herself in daytime nightmares. She does not want to feel the warmth of the sun in unnatural darkness. She does not want my unfamiliar touch.
What can I do? She is blind and afraid of the dark.