Brian Was Blind
Roosevelt Casey

Brian was blind, but I remember the way she looked, standing by the van with both hands on the door handle, like a little girl. Her face was framed by two blond braids resting on a white lace collar. Her eyes were question marks. She wanted to know something. I don't remember what it was, but it was some little thing that everybody knows how to do, but it had to be done in a certain way, because Brian was blind.

She could tell by the tone of Brian's voice that it was something she should know by now. I saw her mouth sag and her shoulders droop, but Brian was blind. She walked away from the van, the hem of her light blue dress playing around her thighs. Her hands were clinched, her head bowed. She remembered how to do it now.

I backed out of the yard and headed down the street. It was Brian's van but I drove because Brian was blind. Brian was chuckling when he turned toward me and said, "Well, that's not why I married her, anyway."

About a year later she was wearing a black evening dress. There was no lace collar, just a little strap around her neck. She wore a string of pearls. I know they were real. Her hair was parted in the middle but free of braids. Her eyes were happy.

I felt compelled to ask her about the event by the van. She was not laughing when she turned toward me and said, "That's not why I left him."

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