There’s a pair of glasses sitting on your favorite wooden night stand. They’re boxy and have chunky black frames. With them, a blurry mass becomes something sharp and refined. A green smudge becomes a pine tree, its needles pointing upwards to pierce the sky. A mixture of peach and aqua blue can transform into a face that you’ve loved for as long as you can remember. Although the glasses are heavy on your face, the added weight doesn’t bother you. It’s better than being blind. Even though some images aren’t so pretty, you’d rather see them than not see anything at all.

Now those glasses are perched on your grandma’s nose. She doesn’t need them anymore, so you’re not sure why they’re there. Her eyesight disappeared right along with her hair. Only a few gray tufts poke out from beneath her yellow hat now and you feel your heart breaking. The tears are coming, blurring your vision, but all you can look at are those glasses hanging precariously off the edge of her nose. You want to say three words, three simple words, but you end up choking on them instead. You’ll remember the glasses, even after she’s gone. You won’t remember the lines and wrinkles that decorated her face, or the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. Instead, you’ll remember black frames and smudged lenses. You’ll remember how they swallowed up her face. Most of all, you’ll remember how she couldn’t see you when you said goodbye.