My mom and dad are nefarious for their tremendously terrible eyesight. My mother cannot see close up, close up to read in front of her. She is like an eagle, soaring to see the things far, far away in the distance. But struggles seeing things near.

All my father sees is little blurs, little blurs of nothingness. He has the worst eyesight, always handy with his triple thick glasses. Glasses so large on their own, it could walk off his face.

And then there's me. There's me that won’t wear my glasses. My glasses don't see my face in a blue moon. I'm like my father, my father who can only see little blurs. Except I see blurs in lights, lights that shine too brightly and brilliantly for me to witness. The lights seem to bolt too fast for me to process. My parents say I am like a bat, a bat that crashes chaotically.

All three, all three not blessed with beautiful vision. Our eyes must have walked off and got scratched up and then returned. We cannot see well, but that does not mean we cannot see the beautiful moments. The beautiful moments where everything is crystal clear.