Spring is my favorite time of year. Smells are so much more potent. They tell stories about a world I've missed all through the steely cold of the winter months. As my companion speaks I relish the scents that reach my nose, of dogwood and apple and oak come to life. Of the slight wetness of the breeze. Of the musk and warmth of this stallion.
I listen with an amused smile as his lips caress the syllables of my name. Saskya. I've always wondered at its meaning, what drove my mother to choose it for her mossy green child with no sight. I like the weight of it, my name. The carefree beginning that ends in a firm dip like birdsong. Hearing Yronwood speak it is like a hearing a poem slightly altered, lyrical, but strange.
“I do. And though I've grown adept at navigating through hearing alone, crowds tend to drown out what I need to know in order to avoid barreling into some poor soul.”
I laugh again, grateful for the opportunity. Life is not easy but it provides moments of respite.
“I am from nowhere. I haven't a home except wherever I decide to sleep at night. I tend to choose populated areas since I am a little less capable of fighting of a predator on my own.”
No matter where I go, and who I talk to, one theme remains the same. They wonder how I manage. How sight removed can be something one can overcome. But it is all I know, and I was never one for simply lying down and giving up. For me there was never a choice. I got up each day and I kept going.
But I don't blame those who do give up. I am not a source of inspiration. I am simply living and making do.
Having never had sight I can't be certain, but it seems a small sacrifice to make. Yes, I wish I could see the sunrise everyone raves about and the ocean and trees and half a dozen other things (I made a list once, in a darker moment) but what good does the wishing do? I can “see” in other ways. My life holds just as many treats for the senses as a sighted equine's does. Sometimes I just have to work harder to find the blessings.
“Where do you live?” I ask, an eager tone to my voice. I love hearing other describe where they've come from. It's like traveling without moving an inch. “Will you tell me about it, Yronwood?”
there is beauty in the darkness