Thinking of you

For the past few years, I have worked with a student who has been totally blind since birth. Recently he asked me what I think about when we're not together and I think of him.  

Naturally, I think of how he looks, his bright and beautiful face and smile, his cautious gait pattern and short strides, the way he uses his cane, his brailler and notetaker. I think of how the other students treat him, how some stare at him in the cafeteria, how frequently I find him off on the sidelines while the sighted students are playing games or copying work from the overhead.  I think of his quick mind and incredible memory, his tears of fear during a camp activity in which the students were expected to swing out holding a rope and drop into a cushioned landing pit. I think of how difficult it was for him to move from living in a trailer park on the outskirts of town to an inner city apartment. I think of his potential and all the challenges he faces.  I think of the growing trust in our relationship that enables him to venture these questions about the sighted world and the sighted mind.

I struggle to answer his question.

So I turned it on him; I asked what he thinks of when he thinks of me. 

He thinks of my voice and the stories I've told him.  He thinks of my therapy bag and all the stuff I bring in the bag. He thinks of the way I laugh.