My daughter can wear my glasses.
The best she’s seen in ages.
Which wasn’t the news we’d gone to the optometrist to hear. I was out of contacs and realized you can’t buy more with an expired prescription. My daughter couldn’t read the digital numbers on the oven clock without running to the oven to see them. Both mild events. Sort of.
But that’s what our prescriptions say now in matching negative numbers. We could wear each other’s glasses…when she gets hers.
It went something like this:
“Read the bottom-most row of letters you see,” the eye doctor had said.
At which time my daughter had looked around the room and asked, “what letters?”
And the eye doctor had pointed before saying, “the ones on the wall.”
And my daughter had answered, “I don’t see any letters on the wall.”
The eye doctor had turned from her stool. She’d shared my sigh. It wasn’t a mystery where this exam was going.
Then she’d switched the screen. In place of normal letters, a large ‘E’ planted itself on the wall. The enormous ‘E’ associated with all eye exams. The ‘E’ my daughter could tell was an ‘E’.
“Go ahead and read the letters below the ‘E’,” the optometrist had encouraged.
And I’d watched as my daughter contorted her mouth; I’d listened as she hemmed and hawed . I’d held my breath as she sucked in more air and twirled her wrists before finally saying, “I can’t tell what they are.”
But soon she will.
Her little glasses, the light brown ones she picked to match her hair, will be here in two weeks.
And she can’t wait.
To finally see what she’s been missing.