Ode to My Intraocular Toric Lens Implants

Crisp letters on traffic signs step into their patterns with a flourish, like a marching band at halftime. The whole world’s snapped to attention without astigmatism. It’s as if someone (my surgeon) peeled a yellow layer of cellophane from the sky. That February cobalt nearly stopped my breath at first. I’d forgotten what it should have looked like. You might think I’d see things differently now. All my life, I’ve heard the women in my family saying Ojos que no ven, corazon que no siente. But I can tell you, looking away never protected the outsized crimson muscles pulsing in their chests. Not even once. I’d sit with them, my book open on the white tulip table that still anchors my mom’s kitchen. Tia Mirta would spit out the words with a derisive eyeroll. Tia Betty would grind out her cigarette, her rueful smile dissolving with smoky wisps that never reached the ceiling. And Abuela would shake her head, hands smoothing the laundry she always seemed to be folding. When she cut her eyes to me, I’d bury my face in Mansfield Park, or whatever book I had. Always sure to squint my left eye as if I were intent on reading, not listening. At my post-op visit, I ask the surgeon about the drops I’m using four times a day. She hands me a chart so I can keep track. Two years ago, she says, she researched and introduced a combination drop for her cataract patients, “and now, they all use it.” Talking about her partners. Her indifference sits at her knee like a well-trained German shepherd, ears at attention for the next command. From my couch at home, trying to forget the headache behind my eyes, I watch the sun toss glitter across the Gulf of Mexico. Palm fronds ripple in coastal wind, each leaf a sharp green knife. I consider the soft, perfect petals of unforgiveness I’ve nurtured. Even when I didn’t see 20/20, I managed to see clearly. Even when my answer had to be the unyielding line of my back as I walked away.