My Mimi went blind when I was 8.
She caught on fire when my Dad was in junior high. Her dress caught in the stove. Dad threw her into the snow to put out the flames. She spent weeks in bed and my heroic Aunt Di took over her duties on the farm.
Mimi played the piano at Buck Prairie Baptist Church well into her blindness. She remembered all the songs. She was brilliant.
Now I will make it about me. I'm starting to see her in my skin. I used to sit on the back of her sofa and roll her hair into pinwheels while we watched Johnny Carsen. Or I would just sit with her and look at her hands. I am starting to see her hands in mine.
It's ok. I've abused my skin with the sun. But it's more than that. I'm not 91, which was her age when she left us. But I see glimpses. And as much as I hate all the aging, I'm transported back to her couch in Aurora when I would describe to her what was happening on "The Guiding Light" because she could listen but couldn't see.
Any part of Mimi is a gem. Even if it is skin that is no longer youthful. She was a champ. I will never be the amazing lady she was. But to look down and see her hands...I will take it.
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