Black

Even though I know there are still colors, shades and images, I will never be able to see again. My world has become black, surrounded by darkness in its entirety. And as much as I try to remember all the faces, all the landscapes and visual moments throughout my life, all I can see in my head are the ghastly monsters eating my eyes.
Now I take another step, and feel how the firmness and roughness of the asphalt turn into a softer and malleable soil, and the numerous leaves of grass try to tickle my feet. I sense the humidity coming from the Meer, now only twenty yards away. I can hear the voices of children playing next to the lake; can even hear the rustling sound of the sand in their hands, the mothers and nannies gossiping while they watch the boys and girls run about. I can smell the park, the blooming flowers and the greenness of the spring; I can sense the changes in the scenery, the ambiance of optimism radiating from this oasis in the middle of the chaos of sirens, business and routine. The wind and the sun wrestle warming and cooling my face and neck, the whole atmosphere of the park hits me, and with the abruptness of a car crash in front of you, the noise, the commotion, the violence, the shock, I break down.
I hold her hand more tightly. She has become even more to me now.
My trip to Guatemala four weeks before the visit to the ophthalmologist had been a very successful one. I took thousands of pictures of the Mayan temples, and was somehow spiritually challenged when I saw the altar in San Marcos, the marvelous architecture of the ceremonial sites in El Naranjo, covered by the rain forest, the greenest ivies engulfing the huge blocks of sand-like stones, but still maintaining the aura of strength from a civilization that knew, almost twenty thousand years ago, more than we do today about construction, mathematics and astronomy. I spent four days traveling by car, boat and plane, photographing every piece of ancient history I could find. I didn't care much about the text, but the article would look perfect with my pictures.
I called her whenever I could, and when I dreamt it was always about her. In my sleeping bag I wondered what she was doing, if she was writing or having a drink with her friends, if she was cooking or just eating Thai food in front of the television. One night, when we had to sleep by the river Negro, I woke up in floods of tears, and I was sure it was because my whole body ached from being far from her.
I got back and hugged her in the airport as if we had been apart for years. It was always like that. She had been the one who saved me from utter failure; she found me and didn’t let me go. And I wouldn’t let her go either.
But something else had caused those tears by the river. There is a parasite called Onchocerca volvulus, which is found in the feces of the black flies of the genus Simulium. One of those parasites found its way to my ocular structures, reproduced, and caused what is known in South America as “river blindness”. At first it seemed as if my myopia had suddenly worsened, and my ophthalmologist ran a series of tests to detect what was wrong. His expression of hopelessness, staring at a point in the distance while his brain tried in vain to find a solution for my problem is one of the last images I have stored in my brain. The parasites had liked the environment I offered. They quickly infested my retinal blood vessels and obstructed the flow to my cornea and iris, and finally destroyed every single channel of electrical signal, leaving the optic nerve useless. Then they did the same to my left eye.
I was immediately treated with Ivermectin, which paralyzes the worms by interfering with neural ion channels, and the subcutaneous adult worms were surgically removed, but it was too late for my eyes. I had gone completely and irreversibly blind.
When I told her what had happened, and how my life would have to go through a whole new change again, she didn’t despair. She stood by my side, and told me everything would be alright. We started to make plans. She is the optimist, and I merely had to trust her.
Now, at the park, she hands me an apple, and I feel the smooth surface of the fruit, the cold freshness of its smell. I can almost see the redness, and the tone of her skin, her gray dress, the blond hair. I can almost see her smiling at me, trying with all her body to make me feel better, to make me hope.
I bite the apple, and the taste is soothing. I just sit on the grass, and I hear her getting up. I ask where she is going, but there’s no answer. I know she is just standing there, and, a moment later, she is gone.