Dear blind woman in Lafayette Park,
I see you every evening as I sit in what used to be my favorite part of the park because it’s where he and I would go together — that clearing at the top of the hill that overlooks the Broadway Street mansions where the specks of light from houses across the Bay flicker at dusk.
Last night, your husband was leading you along the path on his arm when halfway up, he stopped to pick a sprig of lavender. As he brought the bloom to your nose, your face illuminated with a smile that made your eyes wrinkle — like the uncontrollable kind that forms as you leave a lovers house in the morning and remember the sweet words they said to you the night before. It amazed me that even though you weren’t able to see the beauty of what surrounded you, you could obviously still feel it.
In heartbreak, it is easy to feel hardened. But from you I am beginning to understand that the point of loss may not be what is taken away but the humble beauty of what remains. You know it and now I am starting to as well.