It snowed today.
Such untouched purity unknown to the naked eye that obliterates and destroys a child’s sight when in contact with light. Blind to what is unseen, mysterious, and becoming oblivious to events that could enlightens one’s heart or become demolished it in the process. Fragile, yet secure in one’s faith in what can be seen and what cannot be deciphered.
I walked my granddaughter to school that evening.
She laughed, held her cupped hands out, and watched the snow touch her bare skin. I observed her shiver in reaction to this. Not by the cold, but by the delight that gave her the will to continue to hold her hand out and let such clarity touch the very core of her innocent soul. A brave dear she was, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her pinkish tongue, wanting to taste what avoided us all. I remembered when I was only a few years older than her. I too, loved to play in the snow and taste the goodness of the world.
Except it was not snow, but ash from the burning bodies of our families, our friends, and our broken hearts.
Her voice called me, “Grandma, look at the beautiful snow!”
She took my hands and held them out, an action I couldn’t have done myself. I felt the small flakes of angels gently kissing my hands. An act of forgiveness, of sanity, and of love. I looked at bright, delicate eyes that were wide with excitement.
I wanted to cry.
But I couldn’t cry.
I had cried too much before, and I have no tears left to shed in this moment of graceful, serene fairness. All I could do was let my eyes wander to my wrist where my name had been thrown away, left for dead, replaced by numbers that resembled countless deaths of the innocent, the elderly, and the sick at the time of its engraving.
“Grandma, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” My granddaughter turned to me, smiling, no hint of despair or grief that children just like her had suffered not so long before.
This was her blind spot.