Vision

“Look!” he cries,

eyes wide, finger pointing off into the distance,

words temporarily failing him

as to what exactly I should be regarding,

and I obey his command,

look in the direction his trembling finger is pointing,

and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,

just green grass in need of a mowing,

large shrubs, a rusty wire fence,

and a mostly empty parking lot just behind it,

and that is all I see.

I wouldn’t say that my eyesight is the best.

Without my thick glasses, my world is blurry and formless,

like the beginning of Genesis, 

before God started separating seas and firmaments and whatnot.

Even with my glasses, 

I can’t read street signs at a great distance.

Coupled with my hearing, 

which must be at least slightly impaired

after years of rock concerts with no thought of ear protection,

I make my way through the world mainly with educated guesses

of what someone has just said to me,

or what has been placed in front of my face for my inspection.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“Er…yes,” I lie, wanting to change the subject,

“Yes, I do,”

but he doesn’t believe me and says,

with greater urgency now,

“Look!”

After a moment, I shrug helplessly,

and he says, “It was a bird,

But it’s flown off now.”

And now I think I know what he was talking about,

not that I really saw the bird,

just the past tense of a movement,

a flash of brilliant blue.