The Past is in a Filing Cabinet

This part one was started a few weeks ago (hence the future language about a past day), but it has far too much potential to leave in just one post, so part two will be coming, probably today.

May 22, 2021 will be the day my life changes. It will be a small change, in a way, but it will mark a sudden shift in the daily reality of my life. When I was seven, I received my first pair of glasses after I was suddenly unable to read from a distance. I forgot my glasses somewhere only once in over 11 years- it's hard to forget something so necessary to regular function.

On May 22, 2021, 11 years and four months later, I'll trade my glasses for laser eye surgery.

I'm not sure why I feel almost sentimental about this. I've never particularly hated my glasses, but I haven't often loved them. And yet, I've spent much time considering how to explain to others what I see when I take off my glasses. One month from now I'll be starting to forget. My brain doesn't think in images, it thinks in words, so I won't be able to think back and picture the world as I see it now. I like to catalogue things- I never delete pictures or throw out old writing, and my notes app is carefully organized into 17 categories for tracking information, so I instinctively want to record everything about life with my glasses before it is gone. One of my songs says "I wrote my share of love songs/that summer and the one before/slips of paper I still keep next to my guitar", referencing the thick folder and pile of loose paper stuffed under my guitar in its case, songs that have long outlived the emotion behind them. Even as I write this, I briefly consider filing the notes I took for this post in my physical folder labelled 'writing'. 

I've thought a lot of times in the last few weeks, "I'll just take a picture of my view now; I can look at it later!", but of course that is not how it works. So in a way, my biggest trepidation before surgery is the knowledge that I will lose my life as it is now, even though things will be getting better. I'm okay with change, as long as I can catalogue every piece of it. Really, that's what this blog is for.

I finished my work shift tonight, parked my car a block from my house, and walked home. I took my glasses off to pick out details to remember. A car passed on the intersection ahead of me, one white and one red light separated by darkness. My feet below me were a blur, my pink laces blending into black boots. Ahead, a stop sign, just a red spot against dark sky at 30, 20, 15 feet. At 10 feet I made out the word 'stop'. 

The glasses I wear now are old and long overdue for replacement. The nose pads are worn, the arms are loose on my head, the right side of the bridge is missing all of its paint from years of pushing them up with my right hand. I'm not going to miss the scratches or the dirt on my lenses (although I still don't clean them properly, as my mother tried so hard to convince me to), and I certainly won't miss them sliding down all of the time and fogging when I step inside or exercise in a mask. 

This change is good and helpful. And I'll quickly move past the odd feeling of loss. 

As I write this, I'm realizing that my physical writing folder is beginning to look a little overfilled. It's nearly time to close that folder and start another- because who knows what I'll find to catalogue next?

-Aliya