Can you read me now?

My Dad passed away going on eight years ago. I think of him on a daily basis for a reason that is somewhat humorous. If he could see me from up above, he’d probably laugh and shake his head with an “Uh-huh. See?” attitude. Personally, I don’t believe our loved ones can see and hear us from heaven. After all, heaven is a place with no anger, fear, or sadness. Lord knows if my Dad could see some of the stuff that goes on down here, he’d probably be thinking, “What the hell are you doing?!” Do they even say hell in heaven? Probably not. There are those who think we shouldn’t say it here on earth, but I figure since it and the words damn, damnation, and ass are all in the Bible…. (That argument doesn’t always go over well with certain people.)

Okay, back to my point: years ago, when my parents still lived in Massachusetts, I noticed how badly dusty, grimy, and dirty my Dad’s gargantuan eyeglasses were. (It was the early nineties, so eyeglasses, like hair, were still huge.) I’ll never forget it. We were standing by the table in the formal dining room and I looked at him and saw them. They usually were in that state and I couldn’t figure out how he could even stand to wear them. It had to have been like looking through a fog. I gently and laughingly teased him about it, of course, and I may have cleaned them. Probably not, he was capable, after all. So why didn’t he then? Ugh, it drove me crazy!

Fast forward twenty-some-odd years…. Oh, Dad. Now, I get it. I am so sorry for not having an inkling of empathy when it came to the sorry, smudged state of your spectacles. My reading glasses are just as bad. Always. Unfortunately, I am more OCD than my Dad apparently was when it came to eyeglasses and cannot stand when they have even a fraction of the grime his had on them. I have lens-cleaning cloths strewn about my house and car for when I can no longer take peering through a fingerprint fog. Actually, they aren’t even fingerprints. I don’t know what it is or where it all comes from. I think the lenses are a magnetic field for grime, just like black clothing is for cat hair. Maybe it’s because they’re cheap reading glasses. I don’t know. All I know is that one little loving chastisement back in 1990-whatever gives me a sweet memory every day, every time I clean my glasses, because I always think of Dad. Lucky him–he doesn’t need glasses, anymore. Meanwhile, my journey of ocular degeneration is only in its beginning stages. I was already asked if I wanted bifocals and I adamantly refused. So far, other than a mild astigmatism in both eyes, my distance vision isn’t bad enough to constantly have to wear glasses. My close-up vision is a different story, however. Eventually, my distance vision will probably necessitate the need for bifocals. I won’t complain, though. In the grand scheme of things, my aging process hasn’t been too bad, so far. So far….


About rebelwife

New England wife of a Southern man relocated back to Alabama.
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