How do I describe fireworks to my blind daughter, Brynn? In a poem...
|My Brynn’s been blind since she was born, though she sees more than I
But this year, on July the fourth, she faced the noisy sky...
She heard the children's oohs and aahs; she shivered with each boom;
She heard the parents shouting out the colors in their bloom.
“Mom?” she begged, so quietly I almost didn’t hear,
“Tell me what they look like so I’ll see them, too, this year!”
I closed my eyes and looked at her the way she looks at me
With fingertips and touches, and all other ways to see;
I realized to speak of any sight my eyes had seen
Would only make her think inside, “whatever does she mean?”
And so, when next the fireworks burst forth and split the skies,
I squinted tight and saw them through my soul, without my eyes.
I told her they were sneezes mixed with heartbeats racing fast
And the way you savor moments when they’re very nearly past;
I told her they were stings of pain, like stubbing every toe,
But also bursts of joy, like when a race begins with go!
I likened them to thunderclaps and said they fell like rain
And spiraled same as water sucking quickly down a drain…
She smiled then - “I see them!” shouted out my precious Brynn;
(I answered her with kisses and a happy-mama grin)
For though my Brynn’s been blind since birth, I understand her sight -
And so we watched together: Independence Day at night.