Monday, February 18, 2008

Seven years ago today he woke up blind. A few months and several doctors later he moved, with the help of his brother, to this dank apartment building designated for people with his needs. The mornings were the most difficult. He would always forget the he could not longer see. Today he sat up in bed; eyes closed, wondered for the first time where he was, what this room looked like, and then why these thoughts had not occurred to him before. The room was a mystery to him, like every place was now. What color was the carpet? What could you see from the window?
The walls are patchy. Missing paint exposing a gray-cement like white that cuts broken eggshell shadows. Light breaking through a small space between the drawn curtains and land angled across the bed and the spots on the floor create abstract patterns, muddy colors pinned down under footsteps, ground in permanently.
A painting of begonias in a glass vase hangs quietly above the headboard, the somber colors and bowed appearance complement the heavy air, it too, like this room, has aged with time and season, lost its renitence, given into complacence. He inhales the culmination of hundreds of past occupants, a bouquet of unsavory and nauseating odors that wet the eyes and alienate the nose. Every few minutes he hears the sound of a passing subway through the walls. Does dust shake its dormant state and flows slowly through the stagnant air? He knew there is an armchair in the corner of the room; is its seat shallow, the upholstery pooling in a loose puddle of fabric at its center? Are there places that are worn through exposing woolen threads and a foam lining that crumbles in the hand? Next to the chair is a small table with a lamp perhaps. Does is have a cream color shade? Maybe a green geenie with silver painted tassels reclines or maybe there is one of those homemade ashtrays that have the name Jim Carter 6th grade carved into its bottom.
He touches the bedspread. It has a layer of film over it. Is it striped green and brown or is it covered with tiny yellow flowers; maybe it’s plain. The nightstand holds a clock, is it flashing annoyingly? Compelled, he rises, arms outstretched, feeling for the wall. He turns his face toward the ceiling, are their rust colored stains on it or larger places where the plaster is altogether missing? Are the wooden slats exposed, half rotting running lengthwise? He imagines the paint around the holes pealing in big chunks and hanging in triangular sections. He begins to move his hands over the wall. He touches everything in the room. He gets down on the floor, crawls on his hands and knees, grazes over each fiber. He moves to the window, which he has never even opened before. He unlatches and with some effort opens it. He holds his hands out, feels the weight of the air. He stands there for some time. The corners of his mouth break their seven year silence and arch back into two crescent moons. Their dormant muscles awaken from atrophy. He is surprised to feel pleased. He knows tomorrow he will still be blind, but now he knows, he can still see.