She comes once a year. Stares out from vivid prosthetic blue eyes, waiting patiently on the examination table for me to enter the room. She gazes up at me—through me—tense with anticipation for the routine exploration I shall perform. I’m always surprised she’s survived another year, for I expect life to overcome her. I seem to be wrong about this. Strong and blind—a powerful, viable combination.

Her body weight has grown incrementally over the years but it has not marred her beauty. Her stories are of daily living and guide dogs, and a blind, diabetic husband. The dogs have changed over the years, too. I particularly like the one she has now; he licks my hands when I enter the room and perks up when I sit on my stool, in closer to his charge. A gentle pat from his master settles his behavior instantly. She travels to Los Angeles, on trains, to find these dogs and once in awhile has to return them if they’re not quite right. Perfect companions—canines that worship her and seem charmed by her presence. They seem to be able to read her mind.

Her expressions captivate me—crooked teeth and quirky smile—each word leaving her mouth rich with an understanding I’ll never know. I wonder and marvel at the grace with which she conducts herself, seemingly unafraid of the obstacles in her way. She asks for little help, mostly an arm down the hall to the elevator. Nothing to prove. She conquers the world she cannot see.

What would it be like to live in her world? I could not see the faces of my friend’s children. I could not see my own face. I could not see the sun, or moon, or stars, or stop signs. Neither the red lights, nor the green. The roses in my yard, the new paint on my house. What would it be like? I would fuss at my hair and try to forget about perfect eyebrows. I would tuck in my blouse but forget about the color of socks.

I would have to learn a new language—one of touching, and feeling and listening, with eyes closed, seemingly. And there would be fear, a new kind of fear to get accustomed to. I would attempt to juggle all my responsibilities like a novice juggler—given to fits and starts and dropping the balls until calm and experience improved the game.

I will forget about her, mostly, once she leaves and I allow other patient’s limitations to fill my senses. But I will look forward to the next meeting, the next year, with those blazing eyes and the gentle dog.