by Mani G. IyerIt was a beautiful, bright day the sun had come out to play with my crippled eyes, tricking me into a panoply of blur, intense and void, perhaps. I am focusing hard, on something black atop a contrasting white face, worn by you sitting across me, amid voices, Amharic and French. Was it a hat? The sort you only read or saw in history books? When I boldly ventured the form to be a tall, stylish hat you jumped up and down excitedly announcing the world around us, ‘He can see my hat!’ ‘He can see my hat!’ This is how we met, and before long, we floated on a cloud to Quebec, the exotic places you visited, your nearly hairless head, upon which you guided my fingers to let me feel. A year later, when you were waiting out your life, I so badly wanted to see you for the opportunity of confiding in you, that on sunless days, I can see a lot more.
(This poem is dedicated to the memory of Thérése.)
Mani G. Iyer was born and raised in Bombay, India and has lived in the United States since 1985. He is deaf-blind due to Usher Syndrome. He became deaf by the age of 4, night-blind by the age of 12, and now has very little usable vision.