Quotes by Mary Ann Rivers

I look at my snow boots, counting the grommets while I try to name what Im feeling. This has been a problem lately. Its never been a problem before—Ive been happy, and sad, and frustrated.Ive felt angry and sentimental.Ive loved. Ive been loved back.Maintaining long moments of wordless eye contact with the man who is supposed to make me feel okay about going blind, noticing all the exact shades of blue and how I can always tell hes going to smile before he does, pretending Im not responding to some tension between us?Im a little exhausted.

I dont mind the dark, and because its Christmas, weve been busy putting lights up everywhere. High, so everyone knows were okay.

For me, there isnt some miracle cure, this is my life, or my disease will progress and my life will change focus again, and Ill have another new life.I need C to stay right where he is now because for now, I dont know enough to move from where I am.My hypothesis is that the light will come back, both outside and inside me.Im afraid and angry, but the light is a theory I want to prove.Until then, I just have to keep the experiment going with as many controls as possible.One bus, back and forth.One store.One man, his words under glass.

I wonder if he practices making awkward and nerdy look sort of cool. Like he fills his house with furniture that is the wrong scale for his tall body and buys plaid shirts in bulk and tells his barber to leave crazy, too-long pieces of hair mixed in with the regularly cut hair so everything always looks messy.Then he runs his hands through his hair and puts on his plaid shirts and uses mirrors to watch himself sit in uncomfortable furniture until comfortable furniture looks like its the one with the problem.

I cant ignore his one-sided almost smile or his methylene blue eyes. I cant ignore his pretty shoulders or his arms. I cant ignore his big hands, his shoulder-blade-spanning hands, the way the tendons in them lock to every knuckle and speculate on things like capability and dexterity and, of course, the scar over those knuckles on his left hand that Ive noticed before, and its reminder that he has a life and has been hurt in it.

The problem is that stepping away from Brian, leaving him standing under that pergola on Wednesday, is no longer enough to leave behind how he made me feel in that hour. I could leave him there, we could part as strangers, but God, I know that I would look for him. He would live in my peripheral vision, a ghost nudging me to turn and look behind me, only to find a spot that is emptier than empty