The quiet was strangely peaceful.

I thought I might be more nervous – perhaps I was.

I always imagined this moment with my hands grasping the chair’s leather skin manically and my nails curling into the fabric until my fingers colored and throbbed.

I thought my palms might be moist and that my heart might race belligerently.

I thought a doctor’s soft, dulcet voice might usher me awake. As if speaking to a child, his syrup tone would spill a dumbed-down summary of the procedure and I might correct him in the pronunciation of macula. 

But here I was alone, hands splaying out comfortably on the arms of my chair and the steady thrum of my heartbeat pulsing all the way to my toes.

I wish I were holding Daniel’s hand.

I miss the warmth of his fingers across my knuckles. I miss focusing all my energy on the feel of his pulse beating through his wrist. It would make the waiting easier.

I hate this waiting.

The clock’s ticking sound reminds me of Mammalee’s cigarette rasped complaints, her constant tsk of patronization. Tsk. ‘Surgery?’ Tsk. ‘Are you sure it’s worth the risk?’ Tsk.

Daniel is so excited for this. I know he is. Before this he used to always ask me to place my hands to his face, to read him like braille, “Can you see me yet, Sacha?” He’d ask softly.

Daddy’s excited, too. He’s been making a list since November of the things we would go look at after the surgery. Naturally, he put he and my mother at the top of the list.

It’s starting to ache beneath my bandages. I’m afraid to open my eyes.

I need to distract myself.

I sink.

I remember a child’s blurry hand outstretched before me. Caramel. That was the color. Or was it peach? It’s funny, I can hardly tell the difference anymore. In my head the color is so absolute, but for the longest time, I haven’t been able to match many colors to their actual names.

When I was younger I’d label names of my own creation to each foggy memory. The color I used to remember the hue of Ben and I’s walls was purple. Orange marked the color of Mammalee’s beef patties.

“Look Sacha!” the child called through a goofy grin. This time I imagine a boy with wide, rosy cheeks. His excited eyes light up under heavy lashes, and his button nose turns up slightly when he smiles.

“Look!” He calls again. The boy points a doughy finger at the vivid green leaf in the center of his hand. I recall green best.

I remember bending my knees to diligently examine the leaf. In the very middle of it was a phenomenal ball of colors.

Red. White. Black.

I remember the intricate pattern with absolute certainty.

The magnificent creature sat still upon the boy’s hand. Its back was a canvas of white save the red line running through the center. On either side of the line were mirrored images, a myriad of dark shapes smattered on the canvas as if its artist had dipped his hands in ebony paint before ringing them out overtop his masterpiece.

I wondered if the insect was still alive.

“Put that down!” I exclaimed. “It could be poisonous!”

The boy eyed me innocently before a devilish grin slid onto his face.

“Okay,” he giggled picking the creature up by one of its six thin, red legs, “Down!” he shouted giddily before cupping the leaf to his lips like a funnel, allowing the bug to fall into his mouth.

“Ben!” I yelled. I ran to him prepared to make him spit it back up, but by the time my hand was at his back he raised a single fist in front of my eyes and opened it up.

Sitting in the same position, in the same astounding array of colors, was the insect.

He offered his hand to me.

“Magic.” The boy in my memory laughed.

  Ben.

“Sacha!” a voice called, galvanizing me from my reverie.

Daniel’s voice.

I feel his hand on mine followed by the rowdy sounds of my doctor, mom, dad, and a crowd of unidentifiable others.

The doctor’s lusty voice sang, “Alright, Mrs. Taylor – after fifteen years of sightlessness, it’s time to remove your bandages.”

I could hear the cheers of friends and family around me. It was dizzying.

My dad rambled, “Sweetheart what do you want to see first? We could all gather together so you could take us all in at once or…”

I could hear my heartbeat again.

“Ben.”

The room turned quiet and my unconsciously clenched hands relaxed.

“I want to see Ben.”

My mom whispered confusedly, “Doctor, can the anesthetic result in memory loss I’m not sure if –”

I felt Daniel’s worried voice in my ear, “Sacha, your brother passed away during heart surgery years ag—”

“Enough.” I silenced them by calmly raising my hand.

“Mom, do you still carry that picture of Ben with the white ladybug? The one from the day before surgery?”

“Of course.” She whispered.

I felt her rummage through her purse for a moment before placing the flimsy photograph in my hand. I nodded.

“Doctor, I’m ready.”

…

When I finally opened my eyes it took about a minute for them to adjust, and I had to blink several times to not be overwhelmed by the light and realm of new colors.

I eyed the photo.

The boy’s skin was slightly darker than I had remembered. His eyes were bigger and his nose thinner. His smile was toothy, and his dark hair fell shamelessly onto his forehead.

The ladybug in his palm, however, was exactly as I had remembered.

Red. White. Black.

It sat still, obedient upon his hand, an absolute in my memory.

I'd remembered. And it felt like a weight on my heart had dissolved.

I felt water on my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I’d begun to cry.

Finally, my eyes were open.

And what I saw was beautiful.