Talking to Myself Forty September 20, 2020
For Dr. Cohen
Some days are hard and wear me out.
Other days I float through, even though
I dreaded them. Going to the eye doctor
during a pandemic I’d delayed for three
months, but they gave me an appointment
right away, the same week, and Janet
said, “I’ll drive.” So driving home with
dilated eyes wouldn’t be a problem. I
said, “Yes, if you’re sure.” We waited
an hour. I love that Doctor Cohen, and
he remembered me. “Writing any books
lately?” I told him about The Teen’s
Christmas in Wales. “Good, good,” he
said. I said I was teaching, too. “Keep
it up,” he said. They took pictures of
the back of my eyes. He seemed to
approve of what he saw. He looked
and looked for himself at the back of
my eyes. Then he said, “Your eyes
are good, and these glasses are okay,
too.” The ones that got bent when I
fell last November. True, I’d been reading
with them. Still, I’d worried. Janet
had waited and drove us home, gave
Wag a little time outside and then went
off to her next job. All the rest of the
day, I kept thinking: My eyes are good.
My glasses are good.
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