My name is Kurt. I lost my ability to see eight years ago as a result of a car accident. As it turns out, I was lucky. Dad lost his ability to live.

For a long time, I was ignorant of that luck. I won’t ever be able to enjoy an episode of the Three Stooges. It will be impossible to stare at the ominous and powdery man in the moon. The only place I’ll be able to admire a woman’s figure is within my own darkened head. I won’t even know the faces of my own children. That hurts me most of all.

I was twelve the last time I saw a tree. We saw all of it, Dad and I. As the car bounded off the road, vaulting into the air, making the last motion it would ever do on its own, we could see the entirety of the tree’s majesty; its near-bare branches thin and stretching, as though they were extending for the cotton-white clouds. We could see the trunk, a thin yet sturdy shaft of shaded tan staunchly proclaimed into the ground, the inconsistent ripples of bark like an unmoving ocean. We could see the octopus tendrils of the roots, beautiful and random in their placement. We could see the ground, littered with thousands of small crispy red, gold and brown leaves. We saw all of it, Dad and I. It was very beautiful, but I didn’t smile. We seemed to be looking at it for minutes on end. We didn’t breathe. Our lungs hung in suspension along with time. Our eyes were glued to every detail, every small bark protrusion, every miniscule shadow, every thin strand of moss being tenderly pushed by the wind. And then, just when we were most attentive to that which was in front of us, the world faded from a threateningly approaching pile of vibrant leaves to a modest black. It went black for the both of us. Forever.

I awoke. I kept my eyes closed. There was a steady beeping noise. I could feel its fixed rhythm. I could feel a plush yet stable surface beneath my weight. There was something thin and soft covering me up to my chest. The back of my hand started to throb as though something small and sharp were stuck inside of it.

I opened my eyes. The tree stared back. I put my hand in front of my face to see what was inside of it. The view of the tree remained unchanged. I waved my hand back and forth in front of me. Still nothing. I closed my eyes. I went to sleep. Later on, a nurse explained to me that I shouldn’t wave my hand like that again, because the needle came out, and I need the fluids in my body. I was grateful, but I didn’t smile.

I haven’t seen the tree since that first day. I am not sorry. I was twelve the last time I saw a tree.

I am twenty now. I walk down the street. I hear the heavy click of my heel and the resulting tap of the toe of my smooth shoes on the sidewalk pavement. I smell the fragrance of the dumpster behind a restaurant to my left. I can name each of its ingredients: mustard, spoiled turkey meat, a few particularly pungent half-eaten pickles. They sting my nostrils as I continue walking. I can hear my dog, Frank, nose the air hungrily in response. He does not succumb to the temptation, though. He’s been trained better than that. He continues on, the sound of his paws padded naturally.

A car beeps loudly at something. I recognize that blaring honk as that of a local taxi. I can hear the familiar “bop”, “whiz” and “zing” of The Three Stooges playing on a television in a store near me. My skin basks for a moment in the minimum warmth I feel from the sets. As I continue on, I feel the light brush of air from people passing by me. One man bumps into my shoulder and continues moving, mumbling obscenities. I am not sorry.

Frank pauses. He thinks he’s seen something, but he’s not sure, so he’s only partially crouching. I can feel the strain on his harness. His bushy tail gently brushes against my pant leg as he stands.

“Kurt,” shouts a friendly, and somewhat chesty woman’s voice, “I’m over here.”

Her name is Samantha. We’ve been on about four dates so far. We had a lot of fun on the last one. We went to a movie. She told me who was doing what, and I told her what the characters off-screen were saying. Samantha is deaf.

I follow the happy tug of Frank’s leash. My footsteps have also become happy. They have an excited quality about them… an observation I wouldn’t have been able to pick up eight years ago.

Frank stops. So do I. My smile is huge. She embraces me; presses herself against my person. I take my left hand and gently caress the arc of her lower back. She has a tremendous arc. I wrap my right arm around her back and squeeze her to me. My smile is huge.

“Hi,” I carefully word.

“Hey, babe. Want to go get something to eat?”

I consider. “To be honest,” I say, “I’d just like to stand right here and feel your face.”

“Kurt, we’re standing in the middle of a sidewalk,” she giggles.

“Where? I can’t see it,” I joke. My smile is huge.

“Oh, you are so bad,” she laughs.

I am not sorry.

I lost my ability to see eight years ago as a result of a car accident. As it turns out, I was lucky. My Dad lost his ability to live. And though I lost both, my vision and my father, it didn’t mean the world changed from vibrant to modest black. You don’t have to see with your eyes. Just because I am blind does not make me unaware. If anything, my loss makes me appreciate life all the more.

I was twelve the last time I saw a tree. I’m twenty now. I lost my ability to see eight years ago as a result of a car accident. I am not sorry.