On a whim, I decided to join my wife by getting an eye appointment.
I told the optometrist, “well, no, I’ve never had glasses. Last eye exam was….23…years ago, but I’m in my mid 40s, and everyone in my family starts wearing glasses about this age.”
“Everyone does. It’s not just your family.”
Soon she’ll tell me that we’re not the only mortal family, either. Everybody Poops; Everybody’s Eyesight gets a Bit Worse; Everybody Dies.
Then, a miracle: she fitted me with a temporary contraption (like me!) of screws, lenses, and arms and had me look across the street. Fine, I can read it. “Now, take them off and read it again.” The dry cleaner’s awning went a bit blurry, and so did my mind. I repeated the operation four or five times, quickly, each time just about shouting, “My goodness. Oh my goodness. I’m astonished! My! Goodness!”
We did the same thing, with a different set of lenses, with the copyright text in Drew Daniel’s The Melancholy Assemblage, which, I am astonished to report, is printed as tightly and clearly as you could please.
I thought: this is what it must be like to be a god. Everyday, you perform what people believe are miracles. Everyday people shout “My Goodness! My! Golly! Blow! Me! Down!” Everyday people sacrifice, and the god — divinely indifferent, sure it’s just the way things go — looks down, befuddled.
For me, from my sadly mortal perspective, a miracle. For her, a job.
Here’s my new face. May it strike you like a miracle.