The train lilted back and forth, the tracks a steady hum beneath it. The sun must have been out, because I could feel its warmth on my lap, where my hands were idly turning my mother’s ring around my finger. I have heard that this train from Inverness to London is a scenic one. I imagine first time passengers spend most of their time admiring the world outside of the window. I myself was a first time passenger, but it was of no use to me to look for scenery. All that was left of my vision was shifting shadows and patches of light.
When I reveal that to others, they usually express their sorrows, but my experiences have been just as colorful as theirs. You see, I don’t know any better - my eyes have been like this since I was an infant. I have learned to gain sight in other ways.
My mother was instrumental in this right from the start. Even when her own health went astray time and time again, she cared for me. It was not until I was six years old that I realized that other people could see and I could not. Even since knowing that, I had never quite felt that I had something missing, until about six months ago.
My “something missing” is the reason I’m here on this scenic train ride with no means to admire it. Grandmother and Grandfather had never approved of the “poor Scotsman” my mother had run off to marry. They just couldn’t understand why my mother would want to marry the man she loved, who would bring her a life of adventure, laughter, and variety. They could only see that my father, hard as he worked, could not bring my mother a big house, two car garage, and dinner parties with the families on the right side of town.
When my mother’s health had exhausted her and took her away, my father barely had two pounds to rub together after spending all that he had worked for trying to treat her. Grandmother and Grandfather had jumped at the chance to once again take control of their daughter’s matters, taking her back to London where she belonged.
So it was London I was headed for, for the first time. It had been hard, was hard, adjusting to the world without my mother. For the first time in my life, I had felt full-scale the gravity of being without sight.
The tracks beneath the train hum a little quieter, and the train slows to a stop. I had been counting stops along the way - number four. By now we were stopped near a large town mostly consisting of a few pubs and a children’s hospital.
I hear people get on and people get off around me, stopping briefly to attend to their luggage. Someone shuffles near my seat, shifting the floor under my feet. No luggage - I cannot hear the bins over my head at all. They drop into the seat beside me, bringing with them a heavy sigh breathed through stubbly whiskers. A man. He smells stale. He smells of work and stress and a face lined from long hours. It all reminds me of my dear father, who sighed so much during the last couple months of my mother's life that it broke my heart to hear it now.
“Hiya,” he says. Probably a bit disoriented - have I been staring at him without knowing?
“G’day to ya, where ya headed?”
A pause. “Just… home,” with another deep sigh through whiskers. It seems that’s he so distracted with the state of his heart that he’s just as blind as I am. I find it best not to press, and we don’t speak for the rest of the ride.
Two stops later, the man pushes himself up out of his seat. As he stands, something tumbles from his lap and lands on my foot, unnoticed by him. I bend to retrieve it, but by the time I have, he’s shuffled away. I turn it around in my hands. A plush doll, a bear perhaps. Its fur is worn and matted, sticky in some parts with who knows what, maybe the residue of a lollipop or juice. This bear has been well loved by a child.
I realize with a sinking feeling that today, this man has found his “something missing” just like I have.
When I reveal that to others, they usually express their sorrows, but my experiences have been just as colorful as theirs. You see, I don’t know any better - my eyes have been like this since I was an infant. I have learned to gain sight in other ways.
My mother was instrumental in this right from the start. Even when her own health went astray time and time again, she cared for me. It was not until I was six years old that I realized that other people could see and I could not. Even since knowing that, I had never quite felt that I had something missing, until about six months ago.
My “something missing” is the reason I’m here on this scenic train ride with no means to admire it. Grandmother and Grandfather had never approved of the “poor Scotsman” my mother had run off to marry. They just couldn’t understand why my mother would want to marry the man she loved, who would bring her a life of adventure, laughter, and variety. They could only see that my father, hard as he worked, could not bring my mother a big house, two car garage, and dinner parties with the families on the right side of town.
When my mother’s health had exhausted her and took her away, my father barely had two pounds to rub together after spending all that he had worked for trying to treat her. Grandmother and Grandfather had jumped at the chance to once again take control of their daughter’s matters, taking her back to London where she belonged.
So it was London I was headed for, for the first time. It had been hard, was hard, adjusting to the world without my mother. For the first time in my life, I had felt full-scale the gravity of being without sight.
The tracks beneath the train hum a little quieter, and the train slows to a stop. I had been counting stops along the way - number four. By now we were stopped near a large town mostly consisting of a few pubs and a children’s hospital.
I hear people get on and people get off around me, stopping briefly to attend to their luggage. Someone shuffles near my seat, shifting the floor under my feet. No luggage - I cannot hear the bins over my head at all. They drop into the seat beside me, bringing with them a heavy sigh breathed through stubbly whiskers. A man. He smells stale. He smells of work and stress and a face lined from long hours. It all reminds me of my dear father, who sighed so much during the last couple months of my mother's life that it broke my heart to hear it now.
“Hiya,” he says. Probably a bit disoriented - have I been staring at him without knowing?
“G’day to ya, where ya headed?”
A pause. “Just… home,” with another deep sigh through whiskers. It seems that’s he so distracted with the state of his heart that he’s just as blind as I am. I find it best not to press, and we don’t speak for the rest of the ride.
Two stops later, the man pushes himself up out of his seat. As he stands, something tumbles from his lap and lands on my foot, unnoticed by him. I bend to retrieve it, but by the time I have, he’s shuffled away. I turn it around in my hands. A plush doll, a bear perhaps. Its fur is worn and matted, sticky in some parts with who knows what, maybe the residue of a lollipop or juice. This bear has been well loved by a child.
I realize with a sinking feeling that today, this man has found his “something missing” just like I have.