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splinterswerve
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
splinterswerve.hotmail.com
by Wendi Seskus-James (2001)
It’s going to be a hot day today. I can smell it.
The sand between my toes is still cool from the night,
but the air is already thirsty.
I walk closer to the ocean’s edge to feel the
moisture from the splashing water. It’s early and the
beach is mostly empty but I use my stick in case of
stray rocks or deserted bottles. I can hear the
giggles of children nearby playing tag with the waves.
It used to be a favourite game of mine when I was a
child. Running away from the encroaching waves, but
secretly loving it when the water won, dousing my feet
in icy-fresh wetness. I still like to play on early
mornings such as today, but when it’s busier I get
enough stares from my stick without playing.
“Mommy, what’s that lady doing?” asks a child. I must
look ridiculous with my stick in one hand. I imagine
the child’s mother is explaining how sad it is that I
can’t see--that I can’t see how beautiful the ocean is.
“Excuse me,” the mother yells, “Hello?” I don’t feel
like talking to them. Can’t they see I’m busy? I stop in my
footprints and let them approach me. I grip onto my
stick. “Excuse me, may I talk to you for a moment?”
She said “I.” Yes, that’s right, I can hear the
children a few feet away.
“Sure,” I respond, as neutral as possible. The
woman’s voice sounds so gentle and I feel guilty for
being irritated. “Shall we sit down by my towel?” I
walk fives paces left and ten paces inland to my
towel. The woman seems impressed I knew where I was
going. “So, how can I help you?”
“Well, it’s a bit difficult,” she starts.
“Do you have a question about me being blind?” I say trying to not sound irritated again.
“Why yes? How did you know?” she says, “Oh, I see.
You must get asked a lot of questions. I’m sorry.”
“What do you want to know? How do I get around? Am I sad about not being able to see the ocean? I’ve heard all the questions.”
She explains, “I suppose I do want to know those
things, but...well, you seem so confident and happy-”
“Eyesight has nothing to do with happiness,” I say.
“But it’s all I’ve ever known,” the gentleness in her
voice succumbs to anguish, “I’m losing my eyesight.”
There is nothing I can really say to make things
better for her. I once longed for sight. Sight meant
another world. Today, I am grateful for my world. I
sigh, inhale, and listen. And then it’s clear.
“They tell me the ocean is beautiful. Here on the
beach of white sand, clear blue water, and fiery
sunsets that sink deep below into the abyss. They tell
me, as if I need to know--should want to know--what it
looks like--that somehow, the ocean’s power and
magnificence is in its appearance. But I tell them in
order to truly see the ocean, close your eyes.
“Close your eyes and be enraptured by the roar of a
maestro that conducts the water to slap onto the sand.
Sometimes it’s an undulating beckon, other times a
surging chant. And with it comes the salty essence of
life from the musty depths of the ocean floor, so
robust on your tongue. The mist washes over your body
with soft, gentle, butterfly kisses and seduces your
soul. You can undulate and surge with it.
“Sometimes I lay back and wish that everyone would
experience this, if they would only stop feeling sorry
for me and just feel for themselves. People with sight
take so much for granted and forget that you can see
with more than just eyes.”
I can hear her children running toward us now,
laughing. As they arrive, she tells her children to sit down beside us, lay back, close their eyes, and tell us what they see.