That summer he had a scar over his left eyebrow. A fresh one, still pink. He’d split it open on the monkey bars in July and needed four stitches. I’d called him Frankenstein for a week. He’d pretended to be mad, but he liked it.
“Bet you can’t go higher than that!” he teased, standing behind the swing.
“Watch me!” I shot back.
I leaned back and kicked my legs out.
The next thing I felt was a sharp shove from behind. Two hands, flat on my back, at the very top of the swing.
He meant it as a joke. I know that now. He wanted to send me higher.
But I wasn’t ready for it. I lost my grip. My small hands slipped off the chains, and I flew backward instead of forward.
There was a sickening crack when my head hit a jagged rock near the mulch border.
That’s the last thing I ever saw as a child. The sky tipping upside down, blue and white, and the green leaves of the oak tree over the swings.
I don’t remember the ambulance ride.
I remember waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother crying.
I remember thinking it was the middle of the night, because everything was so dark. I remember asking her to turn on the light.
She didn’t answer me. She just cried harder.
I remember doctors whispering words in the hallway outside my door. Words I didn’t understand yet. “Optic nerve damage.” “Severe trauma.” “We’ll have to wait and see.”
There was one surgery. Then another.
But the doctors couldn’t save my vision.
The darkness swallowed everything.
At first, I thought it was temporary.
I’d lie in bed in the morning and wave my hands in front of my face and wait to see them. I’d tell myself, Today. Today it’ll come back.
I’d wait.
I never saw them.
Weeks turned into months. My mother took me to specialist after specialist. I learned the smell of every waiting room in our city. And eventually, somewhere around Christmas, I understood that the damage was permanent.
I remember the exact moment I knew. It was Christmas morning. My mom put a present in my lap and said, “It’s from Grandma. It’s a book.” And I held it and felt the smooth cover and the corners, and I realized I’d never read a book with my eyes again.
I threw it across the room.
My mother didn’t say anything. She just went and picked it up and put it on my shelf. 