“H
i, welcome to the neighborhood!”
There’s just a touch of smugness in my voice — I’m not the newbie anymore.
“Uh, we met by the Chanukah party, right? Nice to see you again.”
Whoops. Chanukah was before eye surgery. My “new” neighbor was literally a blur back then. I walked back up my driveway, blushing, not in the mood of trying to explain that I’m not totally absentminded.
Self-confidence flooded back through me as I unlocked the door of my car. Driving, to me, signifies independence: I’m finally able to do what I want, when I want. I ducked as I get into the car, only mildly bruising my head — a year after surgery, I still frequently forget that I am now two inches taller. I pull out and pick up speed, euphoria coloring the world pink. I’ve done the impossible, achieved what only my husband had believed I could do — I am a sighted, functioning adult.
