You grab the blind man, wrapping your left arm under his right to shuttle him to the spot where a flower is painted on the blue wall.

He knows you by the scent of your shampoo and your silence. You don’t doubt your Spanish will sound worse given his heightened senses just as you know you’d waste time announcing yourself. The breeze told him you were behind him a block before you even noted his hat.

How much sharper would your senses be if you weren’t watching the pomegranates ripen on their trees, if you couldn’t see the swallows scavenge for rice, if you didn’t waste entire mornings trying to precisely name the sky’s blue?


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