Read the smallest line you can see
Posted on
I stare at the light, or rather the projection of it. It appears on the far wall; a vague rectangle of white upon a field of grey. 'Umm.' The leather chair beneath me squeaks an addendum to my murmur. She asks again. 'Try the top line.' I squint a little. There might be something else there, but mostly it's a white haze on grey. I know what it's supposed to look like. I've seen the same thing every six months for years. It's just that normally I'm looking at it through some kind of lens. Unaugmented, it's all a blur.
With lenses, the smallest line I can see is the second one from the bottom. V. N. L. C. I'm so used to the letters, there's a chance I don't really see them anymore. Every time I'm asked for them, my brain searches its memory, pulls out those letters and lets my eyes find their shapes amongst the distortion. V. N. L. C. They might change one visit, but I'd still find them. V. N. L. C. Picked out from amongst a haze of shifting static and noise until they're all I see, huddled together where they shouldn't be. I hope they do change. It's not supposed to be a test of my memory after all. 'Is this the same as it's always been?' Sure. Probably. I don't need my memory testing. Granted, I don't always remember the things I told myself not to forget, but I remember the important stuff. Names. Dates. Places. Events. Songs. Conversations. And letters apparently. V. N. L. C.
'So, what’s the smallest line you can see?' I can't see a line. I'm in a grey room. There's a rectangle of white light projected on the opposite wall. I know this because that bit is brighter than the rest. I can't see its outline; not really. The blur turns it into a mess. There's white and there's grey, but the blend could have been airbrushed on. With lenses, it's sharp and solid. The separation between one and the other is stark and obvious. Today? No. 'I can't...' But that's not good enough. That's not what she wants to hear. V. N. L. C. That's what she's hoping for. Anything else is just effort. Here's some ridiculous spectacle contraption that we can slot multiple lenses into. Let me tighten it so it feels like your nose is being pushed towards the back of your skull. Now I'm going to drop circles of glass into them until the extra weight makes your eyes water. With this lens, is vision better, worse or the same? The difference is minuscule. It probably doesn't matter. It could be the same lens for all I know. Better? The same? I can't tell. What should I be looking at for this? If I look at the rectangle of light, it's worse. If I look at the rest of the room, it's better. If I look at you, it's the same. What answer do you want? V. N. L. C. The projector behind me makes a whirring noise. Another slide. I remember that one too. L. V. N. K. Always that line on the other page. Not the smallest line I can see. This is the top line. 'Read the top line.' But I can see the others. 'Read the top line for me.'
Does it matter what letters I say? Sometimes they're so blurred I see something else entirely. Same slides. Different letters. Stupid eyes. I'll read what I see. Or what I think I see. Maybe it's different. There's a R in there this time, isn’t there? Where did that come from? Why didn't she call me on it? I'm doubting myself now. 'Read the smallest line you can see.' Printed in Sweden. Copyright 1998. I don't say that. It isn't there to see. There's no way I'd see it if it was. But I want to. I want to see something smaller. I want to see something different. I want to see what's really there. I want my eyes to work of their own volition. Or failing that, I want lenses that just do what they're supposed to do; that don't rely on my opinion on whether the red is brighter than the green. The red is always brighter. I tell her that and hear her sigh. She changes the glass circles. My nose protests. 'Read the smallest line you can see.' I don't even know what I'm seeing anymore. V. N. L. C. That'll do.
It's all about perspective. Different lenses, different view. With this lens, is your vision better, worse or the same? I don't know. I stare into the distance. I can't see the smallest line. Maybe I never could.