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  • Writer's pictureShana Ritter

What I see

The outline of the trees reveal themselves, the lighting sky, the barn across the ravine that can only be seen in the winter months when everything is stark lines.My bedroom faces east and for 20 years I’ve woken to the sun. These last weeks as my vision shifts I see not only what’s in front of me but what lays underneath as well.

The view of seasons cycling through the line of trees along the ravine; the earliest tender green of spring the deep full canopies of summer, the red gold splashes of fall and back again to bareness. The world turned to curving lines and muted colors, the grass tawny, the pond lies still, gray as the sky.

My eye is still not healed. The still open wound needed yet more stitches. Monday morning after expecting an all clear I lay again on the table in the upstairs surgical suite looking into the green dot at the center of the bright white light. Once again I breathed deeply. The doctor sewed in an infinity stitch, one more closure to lead back toward sight.

Yesterday I let myself wallow in frustration. Today I’ve got perspective back. Healing slowly is just that, healing. The view out my window is still there.

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