“I enjoyed our vacation together,” the 12-year-old said.
It was the last day of beach vacation. We stood in our driveway. It was time to part ways. Becca’s ride was waiting.
Vacation was over. She had school. I had work. Real life awaits us all.
But we had four days of beach. Four days of sand. Four days of seafood joints. Four days of lethargy wherein the biggest problem of the day was: Should I scratch my butt now or later?
“I’m going to miss you,” Becca said, clutching her pocketbook.
So grown up.
Her little face was sunburned. She wore her platform sandals, like a big kid. She wore cutoff shorts and a colorful Tee. Hair in bobby pins. Cuter than a duck with a hushpuppy.
I forget she’s 12 sometimes. She was a child when we met. Itty-bitty. She still knew all the words to “Baby Shark.”
Now she’s on the cusp of teenagehood. You never know what she will say. One moment she’s eating a popsicle, with a purple tongue, talking about puppies. The next moment, she’s
discussing the finer points of existential free will like a French poetry major.
We’ve had a good four days. And after four days of living with my blind goddaughter, I’ve learned things. The main thing I have learned is that never once does one get a break from being blind.
Not once is blindness not a factor in her interaction with the world. Not once.
A few days ago, someone emailed about a column I wrote. “Why do you ALWAYS feel the need to mention that Becca is blind? It’s offensive to me.”
I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that this remark was made by a non-blind person.
It’s simple really. The reason I always mention Becca’s blindness is because Becca is always blind. Believe me, she never forgets it. And neither do her loved ones.
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