LEGACIES
by Frances Lief Neer
[an extract from Breaking Barriers]
AS IT turned out, the blindness that I imagined as such a handicap was in fact my greatest asset. One day we sat down with her algebra homework. I as paralyzed: "How am I going to help her with algebra?" I wondered. She had to read the problems to me - slowly, clearly. Then I realized - there wasn't much for me to do. Because Christine had to read so slowly and carefully, she had time to think, to see, to observe.
Once she had to write a paper on Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn." I thought to myself, "Why in heaven's name do the schools torture these children with this purple prose of thee's and thou's?" But of course I couldn't say this to my granddaughter. So she read, and I listened. And as I listened, blanketed in darkness, the words came to life. Reading aloud gave us an appreciation of words - their sound, their meaning - that silent reading can never convey. And there I discovered that out of the loss of eyesight came the revelation of insight. In-sight.
Life was not ending, a new life was beginning. We explored the passions of learning together. And together we created a new social life, right in our own home. We created a community. Although my personal family was limited to Christine, Amy, and her husband, Bruce, my extended family was made up of the "bouquet of friends" that Bill bequeathed to me, and of Christine's friends - young, needy people whose home lives were perhaps less than ideal. So we celebrated - we had dinner parties three times a week to keep our spirits alive and to remind us both that life goes on - at any age.
Now Christine is twenty-six and lives in the flat below. She's traveled, gotten a second bachelor's degree, and is working with blind people. And I am here in Bill's house, at eighty-two, planning my next set of adventures and enjoying the quiet, soothing vibes of this place.
Once when I was deep in the throes of grief I asked my therapist what he knew of the afterlife. His answer was unusual: "Listen to the birds," he said. "They know things. They'll tell you." Today I sit near the patio as the birds come and go. I've begun recognizing their songs - the heartbroken twitter of sparrows, the frenzied call of crows - and saying, "You're doing just fine, Mom. You're just fine."
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