There's something about the word "never" that can really break something in you, something you didn't even know you had.
The doctors used that word when I was 9 years old to describe my eyesight. But I don't think they realized how far that 5-letter word reached with me. Inside that word was a universe; a universe I would never see again. A universe I had only just started to grasp, at the tender age of 9, how large and wide it was. A universe filled with such beauty and color and vibrancy that had, in one night, been taken from me. Stolen under the bright moonlight was my eyesight. The thief – unknown.
My parents spent thousands upon thousands of dollars to find the reason, in hopes that with the cause of my blindness they could find the cure. It was all vain.
While my parents wasted their money and time, and my two younger brothers, Phillip and Jethro, kept to themselves as confused and frightened children, I spent my nights thinking about that one Godforsaken word. Never. It sounds like a swear word to me now – a curse.
I will never see the Sun set.
I will never watch the rain fall.
I will never see my mothers' expression at my 12th grade graduation.
I will never see my father's tombstone.
I will never be able to look upon a Monet painting in awe.
Too much "never" for one life, for one person to stand.
But, I will always feel the Sun's heat decline off my face.
I can smell the rain, before it falls.
I will hear my mother's squeal of excitement as I walk to get my diploma.
I can feel the rough stone beneath my finger tips as I trace my father's name and the year he died. 2013, it reads.
I can smell the oil paint and listen to Phillip describe it, hearing the wonder in his own adolescent voice.
I see, just like you, only different.