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Photo by nrd / Unsplash

I do not know any other way; it’s a muscle memory thing as good as putting your feet on the floor, knowing your feet will touch, and you are up for the day.

I grasp for glasses every morning, blindly anticipating sight.

When I put on glasses, what is right in front of me is clear. When I look down or to the side, I see the contrast of blur/clarity probably only those with poor eyesight know. Even in looking straight forward, I can perceive that I am looking through lenses. I am grateful for them. All I have to do to go back is push the glasses off my head to see the color and vague formations that is natural sight for me.

Oh, but what about contacts? I put those in on rare occasions. My eyes dry out, and my depth perception is off. I bump into walls when navigating corners. I hit myself with the car door when I open it. But my sight is clear everywhere I look.

Now I am going to alter my body—a laser will open a flap on my eye, and a skilled surgeon will scrape away part of my cornea, shaping it to be just so: perfect 20/20, better than perfect, even.

The thing I think about the most: waking from sleep, being able to see those people I love most from the moment I open my eyes, not the moment I don my glasses. What moments have missed in that liminal space in the decades of my myopia? If I were to add them, how much would that be?

See you on the other side.