Sometimes

Towards the end of her life my mom lost her vision.

"Rest your chin here, stare straight ahead and press the button when the dots appear." The room turns dark, the test begins. I don't press the button. At least not nearly often enough.

I go back for a follow up visit this week. To see if the drops have been working. To see how I see. And how I don't.

As I entered the room and my mom heard the sound of my voice, felt my hand upon hers, she brightened. Even near the end, even as her mind followed her eyes into the darkness.

I lie awake in the middle of the night, covering one eye and then the other, trying to make out the images, the shadow of the lamp or the mirror. As if I can will my eyes to cooperate. Trying to convince myself that I have.

And I push my mind as it struggles to pull that name from where it has been hiding, as it fights me when I ask it to recall the movie I was watching just before I fell asleep.

Sometimes I feel the possibility that when I walked into my mom's apartment I was staring at myself. Her present the shadow of my future.

Sometimes, the middle of the night is not my friend. Tonight is one of those sometimes.