The Hat

28 Dec

by Mani G. Iyer

It 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.

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