Light is gentle here, and scarce—a room
designed for dilated pupils, for patients
with glaucoma, cataracts, and macular
degeneration—people whose eyes have
somehow failed them. Several wear dark
sunglasses. Others blink and blot their
eyes with tissues. At various times, every
chair is taken. Then, a name is called, and
after that, another. But no seat is vacant
for long. There are so many of us, and so
few hours left in the day. While we wait,
some engage in whispered conversations.
We compare eye pressures, past surgeries,
and treatments, share stories like cowboys
gathered around a circle of slowly-dying
embers—though most people sit in stoic
silence, watching the wall-mounted TV,
checking their cell phones, or staring into
space. One elderly woman leans over her
walker and shouts, She, pointing to her
middle-aged daughter, keeps shushing me.
And when her daughter says, with harried
affection, Shhh, most can’t help but smile,
faces illuminated like priceless paintings by
the faintest, yet unbearably beautiful, light.

# # #

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of five full-length collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in American Life in Poetry, Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, The Writers Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Atlanta Review International Publication Award, and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North Carolina. Read more here: www.terrikirbyerickson.com

Photo: Joel Filipe