Dear Mother,

Today, I asked you why I couldn't see. Your voice was lulling, and you told me that you had a smile upon your face. I asked what a "smile" looks like, but that's useless, because everything is all black for me. Black, black, black. And you said that it didn't matter if I couldn't see. I was the best listener you've ever known.

I was so happy, Mother. So happy.

You made a slip-up today. You talked of how radiant the sun was, how brilliant its golden rays shone. Of course, this gold is also darkness to me— just like how everything is. It could have been the brightest gold there ever was, Mother. I know you're disappointed that I can't experience this aspect of life. I'm sorry for being born this way.

-Amy

Dear Mother,

I told you how much I cherished night. It's the closest to the blank ebony canvas I see, after all. Everyone likes day so much— it's kind of sickening. I don't know when day and night is, exactly, but I trust you when you say that it's night.

You described it to me as black, with white specks of light called stars that dot the sky. You said that I'm the best listener ever, and sometimes, I think I can hear the stars twinkle. It's a beautiful sound, Mother. Or am I just imagining things?

I'd give anything to see those stars that play such a beautiful tune in my year.

-Amy

Dear Mother,

You know the phrase "wish upon a star?" When I look— figuratively, of course— up at the sky and the stars twinkle like a trilling sonata, I feel like anything I wish for would come true. You know, if wishes were real, do you think I could wish to have my sight back? I think I've asked you that once, and you said that its best to save your wishes for when you really need them.

I don't understand, Mother. I'm blind. I want nothing more than to see the world. What can be more important than that?

-Amy

Dear Mother,

I got bullied again today. I got bullied because of my sight. It was so painful— like a knife was twisting inside my heart. I don't care what you'd say, Mother. Tonight, when the stars twinkled in my ears, I wished with all my might that I would get my sight back.

-Amy

Dear Mother.

I'm so, so sorry, Mother. I would say "please forgive me" but I can't, because it's too late and you won't hear these words. They're meaningless now. You know the saying "be careful what you wish for?" I understood it too late, and you paid the price.

They said you died in a car accident, and my heart just about shattered into a million tiny pieces then. And you donated your corneas to me, but I don't want them. Just... I want you back. I don't care if all I see for the rest of my life is pitch back. Come back to me, Mother, please.

For the first time, Mother, I saw your face. It was beautiful. Just like I knew it'd be.

-Amy