by Heather Anne McIntosh
When I first learned to read, my parents thought I was a
prodigy. I was four years old and could read many of my books cover to cover,
word for word. My mother’s hopes for a genius child ended on a summer day when
she caught me “reading” my books upside down. I flipped through the pages,
proudly pronouncing each word. She realized then that I couldn’t see the
letters; I’d merely memorized the words.
The problem was confirmed a week later at the eye doctor’s office. I was diagnosed with severe near-sightedness and astigmatism. My eyes had never seen anything but fuzzy shapes and muted colors. Because of the astigmatism, the world I’d come to know was shaped like a giant cone. It bubbled out at the edges, hazy and unfocused. I had no idea that everybody else didn’t see things the same way I did.
I didn’t truly understand the difference until the day I first got my glasses. Seated in the huge padded chair in the examining room, the doctor placed the new glasses on my face. For the first time I could see. An overwhelming onslaught of color and straight lines surrounded my body. I saw letters and words on the opposite wall, black lines tumbling together in a confusing array of shapes. My mother’s face was suddenly scary and mask-like. I’d never imagined a person could look that way. The doctor reached to adjust the glasses on my face. His claw-like hands were capped with long fingernails. Tufts of hair erupted at the base of each finger. I burst into tears.
“Heather, stop crying. Everything is fine,” my mother said, smiling at the doctor who rolled his eyes at her. I swallowed my sobs and closed my eyes. I just couldn’t believe this new world was so ugly. When the doctor and my mother left the room, I took the glasses off and put them back in their case. I resolved to get rid of them any way I could.
An hour later my family and I were ensconced in a wooden gazebo at Descanso Gardens, unwrapping a picnic lunch. My father laid a checkered blanket on the slatted floor and handed out the food. After I ate my peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, I scooted down the wooden steps and walked along the gravel path.
“Don’t go too far,” my mother called.
I walked slowly into my favorite section of the gardens - the Camellia Forest. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the heavy fragrance of the pink flowers. Suddenly, I was filled with curiosity: I wanted to see what a camellia really looked like. Grabbing the case from my pocket, I snapped it apart and put the glasses on my face.
My eyes opened to a world of pink wonder. Flowers danced lazily in the breeze, their lime-colored stalks painting the air with arced lines. Behind the camellias grew a forest of tall oak trees, their trunks scaled and bumpy - colored in shades of gray, brown and orange. I tilted my head back and followed the path of the branches. For the first time, I saw the leaves. I was entranced. They waved in unison - great green sheets draped across the sky. As I moved closer, I could trace the veins running the length of each leaf and the smaller ones curving to the sides. Dome shaped acorns sat atop the branches and lay in the dirt below.
In that instant, the world opened itself to me.