Poor blind Irene.
She can’t see past the mundane world around her. No ghosts remind her of her past. She has no gods to guard or angels to guide her. She lives in a world as dark and empty as a December night on the tundra.
I saw her yesterday in the sidewalk stream, caught on a crack in the concrete like a leaf trapped in an eddy. Sorceresses, superheroes, and businessmen rushed around her. I saw her kneeling before a dandelion that had pushed its way through the concrete to the sun. Tiny dewdrops gleamed on its leaves. Irene bent down, brushed back her hair, and plucked it with her slender fingers. She scattered the snow-white puff with her breath and watched the seeds ascend dancing on the breeze. Her bright eyes and wide smile followed them into the morning sun.
I could have cast a spell and summoned fairies to carry each seed to its own spot in the sun. But what would have been the point? She would never have seen them.
Poor blind Irene.
