Reading aloud
I read to her, she who has lost her sight but not her vision, not her love for words, yarns, crazy quilts, and intricate webs.
"But, it's fiction," I said the first time my sister Tori - that's Victoria to everyone else - asked me to tell her a story. I found her sitting on the couch in her home library, with Dorothy - as in Parker - her seeing-eye dog, at her feet. Dewey, her cat, about as old as the decimal system, was asleep in Tori's lap.
"There's something wrong with that?" It was more a challenge than a question in her voice. "Fiction?"
"It's make-believe. I like reality. How about I read from The New York Times?"
She laughed and her dead eyes sparked to life. "Like THAT isn't fiction?" Stretching with the grace of Dewey, she declared from her throne: "Fiction, my dear, is as real as real gets. Now, if you please, READ to me."