Memories from Filling Braille Notebooks

My young mind connected the dots,

And decided that paper meant freedom.

Paper is how worlds are built,

How I can say with a straight face that I know what a sunset is.

Once I feel words under my fingers,

I know there is no turning back.

Six tiny points in a neat little box burst open and become galaxies and gazelles.

Young and wobbling,

I did not know the secret of this yet,

So I always asked for a pen.

I begged for notebooks that sat blank,

Demanded pencils rubbed to a stump because pressing harder might make it easier to feel,

Because I did not understand that the six tiny points that made me unlovable by other children,

Would make me unconquerable later.

Growing older meant learning to love those six tiny stars,

A constellation that, among other miracles,

Creates worlds out of nothing,

From eyes that don't open, ex nihilo, come cascades of colors,

The changing of leaves,

Everything from the fall of stars,

To the never-say-die beat of hummingbirds' wings.

Six pinpricks of light,

To draw the riotous clamor of tropical fish,

The luminous softness of jasmine petals.

Six seraph eyes,

That show me sacred and profane alike,

And, for once, I get to choose.