My first awareness of her was her hands. I don't remember exactly how old I was, but my entire world was focused around those hands because they belonged to my mother, who is blind.
I can remember sitting at the kitchen table coloring a picture. "Look at my picture, Mom," I told her.
Without stopping what she was doing, Mom replied, "Oh, it's pretty!"
I insisted, "No! Look at it with your fingers."
She then came to me, and I ran her hands all over the picture as I explained what I had drawn. Her excited response thrilled me.
It never occurred to me that it was strange how she felt things with her hands, even though I knew my dad looked at me and the things I showed him with his eyes, and so did Grandma or any other person who came into our house.
I can still remember how she combed my long hair. She put the thumb of her left hand between my eyebrows, just at the top of my nose, and her forefinger at the crown of my head. Then she'd bring the comb from her forefinger down to meet the thumb, giving me a perfectly straight part.
When I fell down at play, I'd always run crying to Mom. With the hands I loved so much, she would gently wash and bandage my bleeding knee.
As children, my sister, two brothers and I could never figure out how Mom always seemed to know exactly what we were doing. One day, I saw a plate of cookies Mom had just placed on the table. Knowing she couldn't see me, I slyly took one. I didn't realize that she could hear me chewing! She said, "Next time, Karrey, please ask."
Another time I was alone in the living room doing my homework with the TV on. Mom walked in and asked, "Karrey, are you doing your homework or watching TV?"
I wondered how she knew that it was me in the living room and not my sister or one of my brothers. When I asked her, she fondly patted my head and replied, "Even though your adenoids came out with your tonsils, you still breathe through your mouth so I heard you."
There was one thing that concerned me about my mother. One day when I was 17 and standing in front of the mirror combing my hair, I asked her, "You really don't know what any of us look like, do you Mom?"
"Why, of course I do," she answered as she touched my hair to see how long and curly it was.
"I knew what you looked like the day they laid your tiny body in my arms for the first time. I knew you had blond hair and blue eyes because your daddy told me so. And I know what you are like inside."
As my eyes grew misty, Mom continued. "I know that you're agile and strong because you play tennis. I know you have a good nature and have a tender heart because I hear you talk to the cat and to small children."
"I know you are vulnerable because I've felt your hurt reactions to unkind remarks. I know you have character because you have the courage to stand up for your convictions."
"I know you have respect for people because of the way you treat me."
"I also know you have a will of your own because I've witnessed your temper. I know you love your family because I've heard you defend your brothers and sister. I know you possess a great capacity for love because you've shown it to me and your father many times -- and you've never indicated in any way that you felt shortchanged because you have a blind mother."
"So my dear," she said, drawing me close, "I know exactly what you look like, and you are beautiful."
That was 10 years ago. Recently I became a mother. When they laid my precious little son in my arms, I, like my mother, was able to see my child and know how beautiful he was. The only difference was that I could see him with my eyes.
Some day I'm going to turn out all the lights, hold and touch him and see if I can feel all the things my mother felt.
