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The darkness began to close in on me at an alarming speed. As my eyes grew weaker and weaker, my glasses got stronger and stronger. I sat in my room and admired the books that lined my shelves – years of accumulation. These books transported me to places I would never travel. They made me laugh aloud at their silliness and cry at the same time. Others expanded my mind. They also schooled me in my illness. They prepared me for what was to come.
I knew but I chose to ignore the outcome. If I thought of it too often, it might really come true. I didn’t want that. I am a reader. I can’t be separated from my books. God wouldn’t do that to me.
Wrong. I was wrong. I woke up one morning to total darkness. It happened. My Braille cards sat on my bed stand where they had been for a year. I should have studied. I shouldn’t have ignored the inevitable.
Now I sit. I sit at a table where a young man holds my finger and runs it along a page. I have to memorize the placement of each dot. My mind is old. It learned the alphabet once and now it’s made to learn it again. I don’t think I can do it but I must. I must be able to read again. Myself. Alone in a room. No noise. Just the turning of pages.
I was the reader. Now I am a humble learner, proud no longer in my vocabulary. Soon, God willing, I will be a reader again. I will be a reader again.
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