Eyes To See
“I don’t enjoy having visitors.”
I listen to the gentle lisp in her words as I run my hand over a ledge, and slowly sit on it. “Aren’t visitors the only way you keep the doors open?”
“Maybe,” the woman continued, “But as a sculptor, I feel like those who come here do not appreciate my art, not as much as you do.”
I smile, tapping my cane against the floor. Her work did keep me coming back, letting me feel the labor put into every piece, connect with the stories behind them. Every artist would love to have their work appreciated, and this was one form of art a blind man like me could appreciate entirely.
“I’m not a customer, there’s only so much the two of us could do,” I continued. “Plus, I’m an old man with nothing to give you.”
“I’m a lot older than I look.”
“Maybe, but there’s no denying the beauty in your voice. The way it resonates, I’m sure your face is just as beautiful,” I pause for a moment. “One would think men would come to the store to court you, at the very least. Pretend to care about your work.”
“They used to come,” she said, a hint of sorrow in her voice. “Men used to come from all over.”
“I take it you turned bitter and drove them all away,” I replied with a laugh.
“You could say something like that,” she said, walking around. I hear the sound of her feet walking around the large building, the echoes of her steps bouncing off the sculptures spread around the space. “You know, the reason you and I are still friends is because you cannot see me. Once you realize how hideous I am, you’d never come back.”
“I highly doubt that,” I replied, getting to my feet as I ran my hands over the sculpture closest to me. It’s of a man, standing with his arms raised to the sun. I run my hands up to his face to feel the features. “You know, I might be blind, but I see a lot clearer than so many others.”
“That’s just crazy old man speak,” she replied, a little chuckle coming from her.
I shake my head, taking my hands off the sculpture. “Your art, sculptures of men and women in their moments of woe, you make art of man at their moments of pain. See, that does not come from a place of darkness. Yes, there is darkness in you, but this is your way of letting it out.”
“Maybe if I were blind, I’d see things the way you did.”
I smile at the irony of what she had said, “I was born blind, I do not know what a face looks like, I don’t completely understand what flesh is. Eyes, lips, everything that can be seen, the things the poets capture in their words, I will only ever experience them by sound, taste, I’ll never see the sky or the sea. But I can see the heart of a person, as clear as day.”
I hear her walk across the room, reaching out to take my hand. She presses my hand against her chest, “What do you see?”
“I don’t need to touch you to see.”
“But you only need to see me once to feel my touch,” she replied. “I envy you, I envy your eyes. That way, I’d be able to keep my guests.”
“But if you couldn’t see your guests, you wouldn’t have so many,” I reply.
She laughed again, this time the bitterness hung in the air. “I’m cursed to see, and your blindness is a blessing. The gods play cruel jokes on us all.”
“Indeed they do Medusa,” I reply. “Indeed they do.”
