A perfect spring morning, the water smooth, teal silk. The mountain shows its shy face, both miniature and overwhelming at once. Tea on the deck in the sun after a cold, blustery, soggy Seattle week. The mothers are called one by one. The boy arrives in boxers, bed headed and sleepy eyed, to hand me a note, part hand printed, part typed as I am on the phone to my own mother, so that I read it aloud. It begins with a “yo sup mom,” and ends with “peace out hommie,” that has us all laughing across 3,000 miles.
The moment appears tonight through email, richer in colour and warmth than I would have imagined. It seems impossible to think that there was a day when I thought I would be blind to colour forever. But this moment is captured, reflected in the lens of one who sees it all.