One last look.

If I knew I'd turn blind tomorrow, what would I choose to see today?

I’d probably wake up early enough to finally see my first sunrise. I’d sit on my terrace and watch as the sky changes from blue to gold while the birds wake up. I’d watch my neighbour water the plants in her balcony, except for the one succulent in the corner, like every other morning. I’d watch as the newspaperman goes by every house, stopping by the sweet old woman’s to make small-talk, watch her shyly giggle and finally shoo him out her door.

I’d look into your eyes as you hand me my morning coffee and sit down beside me, crinkling your nose and making a comment about how dirty the floor is. I’d look at the brown in them, the little light fleck near your left pupil and the way they narrow when you’re about to say something you think is very clever.

I’d hope it rains today then, so I can watch the water falling on the leaves of the banyan tree older than me outside my house. I’d watch it gather at a tip, waiting until it’s heavy enough to fall off onto the one below it, waiting and deciding all over again. I’d probably sit there longer than I need to, just to see how long it takes for the rain to finally reach the ground.

I’d stutter my way through a silly joke, make you laugh just to get one last chance to memorise how your skin creases, your lips stretch and the light in your eyes, so I know what you look like when I say the same joke again tomorrow.

I’d look at my room all over again. Sit right at the centre of my soft bed and look at the mug on the table my mother scolded me a hundred times for not taking downstairs. At the ticket, sticking out of the middle shelf, to a movie I never got to see because a close friend fell sick that day, and I couldn’t go to watch a movie alone. That’d be odd. Going to the movies alone always felt odd.

I’d watch you brush your hair. Watch the way the light dances off your waves and the way you groan in struggle when your fingers get caught in it, pull them out and start again like that somehow counts as fixing it. I’d ask to brush it for you, watching the way it falls through my fingers and onto your back, knowing I’d only be able to feel how soft it is from tomorrow.

I’d buy popcorn at the stand. Cheese, of course, before heading to my seat in the theatre to watch whatever movie was on that day. Alone. I’d sit through the opening credits and watch the lights go down, knowing it would be the last time I’d ever get to see a movie without needing someone by my side.

I’d look at your hands again. Run my eyes along the lines only my fingers can trace from tomorrow. Look at how perfectly they fit in mine. I’d watch you curl your fingers around the paintbrush as you make me sit as still as I can, painting me stroke after stroke onto your canvas. I’d watch those same fingers trace slow lines across my chest when you’re lost in thought, waiting until you finally tell me what you’re thinking about.

I’d look at my parents. Watch my dad rock in his chair with the newspaper, glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose to “help him read better” as he insists. Watch my mom smile sweetly the second she sees me and pat the space beside her on the sofa so she can hear me rant about my day. Today, I’d let her talk instead. I’d just listen, and notice how much older they look since the last time I saw them.

I’d watch you cook something for us, whipping something random up with as few ingredients as you can because there was nothing else in the fridge. I’d stand in the doorway and watch you taste it from the spoon, make a face, add more salt, and taste it again. I’d watch you get annoyed when I came too close and told you I was hungry. I’d probably steal something from the pan anyway, burn my tongue, and pretend it didn’t hurt because you’d already told me not to.

I’d spend a few hours alone with my favourite book. I’d re-read the parts I’d underlined and fold the corners of the pages I always said I’d never fold. I’d read it slowly this time, stopping at the parts I used to rush through. I’d read and regret not calling it my favourite before, now that I’d have to part from it. 

I’d watch the sunset with you, even if we were only standing outside because neither of us felt like going back in yet. I’d watch the light disappear from your face as the sky got darker. You’d probably complain that I was staring again. What can I do? You’re especially beautiful when the world starts getting dark.

I’d look at my own face in the mirror, even though I’ve always hated doing that. Look at the mark on the side of my cheek I stopped noticing years ago, the one that only shows up in photos I never look at twice. The way my smile first pulls my lips downward before going to my eyes, the pink in my cheeks fighting for room to stay. I’d keep looking until my face started to look strange, and wonder how long I’d remember it after tomorrow.

I’d watch you fall asleep beside me. I’d watch the little crease between your eyebrows disappear, your mouth fall slightly open. I’d watch your chest rise and fall until I knew the rhythm without thinking about it. I’d watch your eyes slowly flutter closed as sleep finally overcomes you.  And finally, I’d close mine too, knowing yours were the last thing I saw.