Since he came to know he was
soon going to become a father, his only hope was for his child to have the gift
of sight.
Blindness
had engulfed him from his 11th year. It had confused him if he ought
to be happy that he had at least some memories of sight to fall back on, or
feel frustrated that a rude joke had been played on him. It wasn’t frustration
at not being able to see anymore, but frustration at knowing how it was
impossible to see any more, any further. Now, as he listened to his child's
heartbeat as he placed his palm o the womb, all his frustrations from his life metamorphosed
into helpless pleads, a helpless begging for his yet unborn child.
But
months later, the day he held her tiny form in his hands and was assured that
she could definitely see him and was probably forming her first memories and
sensations of her father, his deepening sorrow knew no bounds.
He
realized he had absolutely no control over what he wanted her to see in him.
In
between clenched sobs, he secretly wondered if he could lead her to see into
him too one day.
His fears were very soon assuaged, though.
A
few days before her eighth birthday, she complained to him that she got really
tired of looking at the same patterns on her bedspread that stared dully at her
every night, and asked for plain white spreads as a birthday gift. And within
weeks after receiving it, she began telling him about the amazing images with
exotic stories that were born on the white every night.
She
told him how she could see into the white, and it had blood in multiple hues.
She
enjoyed cutting through the reflections. Through the obvious into the myriad.
That
night, as he lay patting her head, he knew that his prayers had been answered,
perhaps a bit too generously.
He
felt a throbbing sadness for her and her life; for she could see beyond the
white but not the white itself. And because she could see more, she would, for
the world which reveled in repetitive patters, remain utterly blind.
Just
like him.
