I sat crisscrossed in front of the towering shelf. The heels sharper than the knife that cut the endless fruits my grandma chopped in her kitchen. Above me, hats hung in rows, hiding the tan walls. I could name each color. Do you wear all of them? Not this one, she says. I traced her finger to the candy red one, wrapped around with a black stripe, finished with a bow. It covers my face too much, she says. Can I wear it? She laughed. You’ll go blind! Her shoes clicked on the tile, it slowly faded farther away. My fingers barely reached the rim. It slid over my bug-sized head. Immediate darkness. I had a night light in my room, it resembled an elephant. Scared away the red-eyed monsters who lived under my bed and the evil spirits from finding their way into my dreams. I didn’t need the elephant. It was dark, but I didn’t shiver. I didn’t freeze. I didn’t crawl under my covers and force every inch of my body into a ball to become invisible and smaller than I already was. I felt bigger. Unlimited. I wobbled my way to the back door, absolutely dark, but I still saw the field of yellow flowers. The wind rushed them to the right. Hand in hand. I could see the water dripping from the fountain and make out the birds in a featherbrained argument, for they all wanted it to themselves. Nothing had changed. She approaches me. Immediate brightness. What did I tell you? You’ll run into something! But I can see, I say. Impossible.