The Blind Son

By Michael Levy

Reprinted with permission from Aish.com

I listened carefully, as I had been taught. Then I followed my white cane off the curb and across Central Avenue. For the first time in my life, I was walking to school alone, with only my cane and my memory to guide me.

For six months I had been trained to swing my cane so that when my right foot stepped forward, the cane was already exploring where my left foot would land on the next step. By the time my left foot went forward, the cane was one step ahead on the right.

The rest of America talked about baseball, listened to the Beatles and worried about Russia. My world was much smaller than that -- the ocean was two blocks behind me. The school was three blocks ahead and one block over.

It was good to be ten years old in Bradley Beach, New Jersey, a town so small that we went home for lunch and returned to school for afternoon sessions.

In those days, I didn't realize how my parents struggled to allow their blind son to take risks, fearing that I might fail or fall. They let me explore anyway -- in the yard, behind the garage, down the block. They knew that I needed to become more independent.

"Does he really need to ride a bicycle?" my father asked my mother, Etta. She ran alongside me until I could ride the two-wheeler on the sidewalk, find the corner and turn, and then make the trip back to our driveway.

By the time I turned off LaReine Avenue and headed towards Brinley, my steps were light and confident. Had the chilly day turned warm, or was the warmth coming from inside?

When I reached the cobblestones, I knew I was about to cross Brinley Avenue. My last crossing. Beside me was the playground fence. I just had to follow it to the entrance.

"Hello, Michael." My heart was beating fast, but I had to act cool.

"Hi, Jackie."

"Hello, Mrs. Levy."

So I hadn't walked to school alone after all. She must be very nearby if Jackie greeted her like that. Behind me, I bet that's where she is. My body turned. My face contorted. "You didn't trust me!!"

When you're ten years old, it's always about you. The only response I got was the hum of my mother's bicycle wheels as she retreated towards home.