NadechYaya: Eyes on You

01

The whistle of the wind accompanies the sound of the birdsong as it blows against my face and cools it. The warmth on my skin is like the gentle kisses of the sun. It's one of those days, I assume, when the sun is raised up high, shining just enough to brighten the day but not too much to hurt.

The sky should be blue and tainted with clouds that look like cotton candy in the color of fresh snow. On a day like this in summer, the grass is at its most vibrant green and the trees are as lush as ever. The flowers are in full bloom, and I'm sure the roses out back in the garden are as red as ever.

It's this time of the year that the tree outside of my bedroom window would be occupied by a family of hummingbirds that sang to me in the mornings as they bathed in the dew. Their feathers are always of bright golden yellow, competing with the brightness of the sun.

How great would it be to be able to paint them—the red roses, the yellow hummingbirds, the blue sky. I guess I had always taken it for granted: watching the brushes against the canvas as it births a new picture, taking note of how the colors changed as I mixed two or more together.

I should have looked up at the sky more often. I should have visited the rose garden every chance that I got, and fed the hummingbirds before they set flight.

"Yaya are you listening?"

I am pulled out of my trance when my uncle places a hand over my shoulder, squeezing it as he slightly shakes me back into reality. Letting out a breath, I look up at him, or at least I think I am. Judging by the placement of his hand, it seems like he is on my left. I've always been unsure ever since that day—if I have been looking in the right directions—-but I've always made it look like I was confident. I can't see the look on anyone's faces anyway if ever I've made a fool out of myself, so there's no room to feel embarrassed at all.

"Are you thinking about something?"

Thinking? That's all I do—that's all I can do. When forced to see nothing but pitch-black darkness, there's nothing else available for me to do but think. I have been thinking for long enough, and I have thought about far too many things.

I've revisited too many memories, imagined scenery tantamount to mountains, considered all the what-ifs and million possibilities.

"As far as I remember, it's the only thing I can do. So yes, I am thinking of something—I have thought about everything."

There is silence and slowly Uncle Joe's hand slips off of my shoulder. I hear the way he sighs and the sound of his footsteps against the grass as he seems to walk back to his seat. I can picture him sitting down from the way the old oak bench creaked as it welcomed his weight.

I didn't mean to be rude, but it looks like the best of my temperament has left along with my sight. "I'm sorry," I mutter softly, hanging my head low. There's no use in trying to look him in the eyes anyways, he knows I don't see him.

"It's okay, sweetie. I understand." There is a smile in his voice, and I could imagine him pursing his lips into the thin line of a smile he usually sports.

"As I was saying," he continues, "your new caregiver is coming today."

I immediately frown. Furrowing my brows, I glare ahead of me which I assume is where he is, based on the aroma of the coffee he is drinking that is being blown by the wind to my direction.

"I told you, I don't need a caregiver. I am perfectly fine."

I am not.

I am blind.

And if it is not quite obvious from the way I am stuck in a wheelchair, I also can't walk.

I'm basically an invalid—useless in more ways than one. Being taken care of only justifies that and for some reason, it makes me so angry. It makes me so angry that I have to be so useless that I need someone else to do things for me, and it makes me so angry that the people who I actually want to take care of me are not here.