“She is blind,” her mother said.
“Blind?” the teacher asks? “We cannot accept blind children. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?” the girl asks.
The teacher is startled. She wasn’t in the room.
“Because, child. You cannot read.”
“That’s because I haven’t learned. I need to go to school to learn. That’s what Momma told me.”
“You cannot read because you’re blind, honey.”
“I can spell.”
“Can you write?”
“I don’t know how yet.”
“I know, because you are blind.”
“Then why did you ask me?”
“Listen, child, you need a special teacher. I am not the one for you.”
“I know,” she said. “Because I’m blind.”
“Exactly, child.”
“I have a name, teacher.”
“What is it, then?”
“Selena Heather.”
“Your last name, Selena?”
“It’s Irish.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“That’s what it is. My name is Selena Heather Irish.”
“Then go along with your mother, little Miss Irish.”
“Yes, teacher.”
She whispers in the mother’s ear, “She is a remarkably intelligent child, however I cannot teach her, I’m sure you’ll find someone though.”
“Thank you, teacher,” Selena said.
“My goodness, Selena! What on earth do you want to thank me for?”
“You were the first teacher to say I am an intelligent child.”
“Your welcome, Selena. You have wondrous hearing, indeed.”
“Thank you. Goodbye, Teacher.”
“Goodbye, Selena. Good luck, Mrs. Irish.”
“Thank you.”
*


*


*


*



*
“Momma, what is that smell outside?”
“It is the flowers. The bright, colorful flowers.”
“May I hold one?”
“Of course, Selena.” She picks one from the ground. “Be gentle with it. Flowers are fragile.”
“Yes, Momma,” and her mother places it in her hands. “It is like a long stick,” she observed.
“No,” her mother laughed. “That is only the stem. The flower is at the top of the stem.”
“What color is it, Momma?”
“Yellow, like the sun.”
“Yellow must be a terrible color.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you told me the sun is yellow, and the sun hurts your eyes when you look at it, even if you are blind.”
She laughed again. “Selena, you crack me up sometimes!”
“Can flowers die?”
“Yes, Selena. They can die.”
“So flowers are alive like me?”
“Yes.”
“Can there be blind flowers?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t have eyes to begin with.”
“I guess that makes sense,” she said. “Can flowers love?”
“No, but you can love a flower.”
“Why can’t a flower love?”
“Flowers don’t have hearts and brains like us.”
“Then how is it living?”
“It just is, honey,” her mom said. “It just is.”