DEAR CATHERINE

I had an Aunt Catherine who was accidentally blinded by her doctor at birth. When I was a child, my family and I visited with her almost every Sunday. She lived on a large estate run by the Catholic Church. Imposing. Orderly. Thickly quiet. Nuns roamed the long hallways, the swishing of their long dark robes on tile announcing their presence. 

After ascending a long, curved staircase, Aunt Catherine was always found in a dark room, sitting in her rocking chair, reading. But she was feeling her way to words. Her fingers tumbled across the bumpy paper with an elegant familiarity that mesmerized me. And I particularly remember realizing how much I loved the foreignness of it all. 

These pieces are from a book of Emily Dickinson poems in Braille. For pages 65 through 76, I dipped my fingers in ink, closed my eyes, and typed Dickinson's poem Two Worlds. 

Skip to Other Series:

Hard Data Soft Flesh

You Know I'd Love to Waste It Again

Portraits

BACK TO SERIES INDEX