Jarred by the harsh sounds of English;
she was confused by unknown
smells and the touch of
a new caretaker.
Critically ill in the Korean orphanage,
she had struggled, but now, in our home,
her fevered cheeks had cooled.
Some mornings when I reached for my
tiny new daughter, she cooed and smiled;
but other mornings she turned away—
continued to cry.
Then one morning, as I reached for
my dark-framed glasses—I understood.
They ringed my eyes,
were easy to identify.
When I forgot to put them on—she cried.
Almost four when I had her eyes
checked, the eye doctor told her to point
her fingers the way the legs of
the large “E” faced.
She looked uncertain and moved
her small hand the wrong way—
again and again.
Frustrated, the eye doctor looked at me,
Maybe she doesn’t understand
what she’s supposed to do.
Tight lipped, at the unspoken judgement,
I replied, She understands.
She just can’t see the “E.”
Moving her closer, he pointed again; this
time her hand movements were
quick and decisive.
Two weeks later, balanced on her little nose,
just above her big smile,
were Coke-bottle glasses,
and finally,
she could see
her new world.
