I got glasses at twenty-nine because the eye doctor said I'd been squinting for years without knowing it.
The first morning I walked to the bay window and put them on, the oak outside exploded into individual leaves. I'd been seeing a green blur my whole life. Each one had edges, veins, a stem.
I stood there crying in my bathrobe, next to the shower curtain rings I'd ordered in burgundy by mistake. They clashed with everything. I hadn't cared enough to return them. That was new.
My younger cousin called that afternoon, the way she does, full of questions. 'Who's your favorite person right now?' she asked.
I said me. I'd never said that before. It came out quiet and strange, like a word in a language I was just starting to learn.
I think the me I'm becoming is someone who stops at windows. Someone who keeps the wrong-colored rings. Someone who can finally see the leaves.