On sunny days, the light would peek through the gaps of the blinds which covered the glass sliding door. The rays of sunlight would block the iCarly episode I was watching, but the sound would still spill out of the small speakers on the sides of the viewing box. A rainbow would form on the crimson, vine-patterned carpet, and, later in the day, the rainbow would move to the milky walls, and my brothers and I would look at it with marvel. Mom and dad just watched and laughed at us as they wished to paint the white. But that was something we couldn't do in a place we didn't own. Some days, when the sun decided to leave and in its place would sit crying clouds, raindrops would slap the cars in the parking lot, and shadows would begin to cover the small space. When Mom and Dad were at home, they would speak in a language foreign to our ears. My brothers and I could not understand, but that was what they wanted, as they sat on the couch and made plans to move. Sometimes, my ears would pick up bits of their conversation, and I'd fantasize about a bigger house. But fantasies would fall from my ears as I raced my brother from their room to the front door through the long hallway in the middle of the apartment. How would we run in a bigger house without a carpeted hallway in the middle? My mind couldn't fathom the idea. Once in a while, on rainy spring days, the clouds and the sun would get along, signing their peace treaty with a rainbow. My siblings and I, along with neighborhood kids, would rush out of our home, exclaiming, "Rainbow!" as if we'd never seen such a bewitching display of color. We would all come together in the middle of the parking lot, or newly wet grass, discussing how to get to the end of the rainbow, and arguing the existence of leprechauns. Sometimes, we didn't have enough kids to argue as some of them would leave the neighborhood weeks prior. Their apartment doors a forgotten number among forgotten numbers. Their parents most likely found a pot of gold and used it to move. It's incredible how fast things change. When I was little, I promised myself that I would never curse. My friends and I promised we would all go to the same middle school. When the future is a blank slate, you can say whatever you want. It's like an artist describing a painting she hasn't yet painted. I would never have guessed that I would be the one to break those promises. One time, my older brother stood on the wrong side of the railing on the second floor. He was a pirate standing on a plane; the only thing that kept him from falling was the edge of the wood on which he stood. He looked down to the ground below him, and all he faced was blue concrete and the different colored faces of neighborhood kids. Then he let go and jumped. He fell past the second floor until the red rubber soles of his shoes touched the cold blue concrete of the first floor. The small group of pre-pubescent kids cheered, and some said they could do the same thing; what was once impossible was now the opposite. I wonder what I would've done if I knew I would never get the chance to attempt the same feat. I remember first moving to our apartment. I was less than half the size I am now, and my brain was too. Things are so much bigger when you're so much smaller! Our couch was a deep rich brown, and the TV was on the left wall. Above it hung forgotten gifts, cards, and posters, handcrafted by my parents' children. The dining room didn't have a large green mat yet. The kitchen wasn't even as big as the dining room, but it had more cupboards than I could count - cabinets that hid all sorts of roaches and crawly things that shouldn't be in houses. The place always smelled like tomatoes, spices, and oils. My mom always made stew, and the scent would cling to the walls, the furniture, and the fabric of our clothes. My mother would always wear a flowery perfume when going to church, and I would always ask why smelling like food was such a dreadful thing. Maybe I could've used that as an excuse to keep us from moving. "Mom, Dad, the apartment holds not only scents but memories too! What if it forgets about us?" I could never forget. The sun looked at us through the glass sliding door in our living room, and my brothers and I looked at my parents as they entered a small car with an unfamiliar blonde woman in a grey business suit. As soon as they left, we all sat together on the soft, vine-patterned carpet that we still have, and pondered where they were going.

“Serna, you sit there,” my 2nd grade teacher said as she gestured her manicured hand to a light – blue desk at the far end of the classroom near the exit door. It was the first day of school and she was arranging our seats by alphabetical order of our family names. Mine starts with the 19th letter of the alphabet therefore, it was expected that I would sit at the back. I remember putting my bag and belongings on my desk and acquainted myself with my new seat. Upon facing front, it was then that I noticed something unusual. There were illegible scribbles written all over the chalkboard. However, to my surprise after squinting my eyes and leaning a bit closer, they were actually fractions and numbers for our Math class. It was weird but I just shrugged off the experience thinking it was just an effect of sitting at the back of the class and delighted myself with my new school supplies. That was the first memory that comes into my mind when I try to recall the moment I started to have a blurry eyesight. Myopia, nearsightedness or shortsightedness is an eye condition in which light focuses in front of instead on, the retina. It makes the distant objects appear blurry but become normal when they are close. As a person who suffers from this eye condition, the world becomes like a pixelated low quality movie. “Struggle is real.” This line from an Internet meme perfectly sums up my experience as a nearsighted person. Oftentimes, I would find myself into embarrassing situations like getting lost in public places, walking straight into glass doors or waving to a person who is actually waving to the person behind me much to my mortification. In classes, the PowerPoint presentations and visual aids of my classmates are not much of an aid at all and the words on a chalkboard look like squiggly worms doing a dance routine in my eyes that trigger a pounding in my skull. I actually wear prescription glasses that help me focus my eyesight in looking at distant objects. However, wearing one is a nightmare itself which is why I often take it off whenever possible. I hate the sensation of metal and glass jutting out of my eyeballs, the way it leaves deep indentations on my nose bridge and the never absent fingerprint smudges on the lenses. But still, I always get a “mini – heart attack” whenever I misplace them. Nothing compares to the anxiety when a myopic person forgets where she puts her eyeglasses not only because she cannot see clearly but because it is very clear how much a new pair can burn a hole in someone's wallet. However, despite the downsides of not having a crystal clear vision, my blurry vision has given me a different perspective in seeing the world. I may not easily see details but I have come to see little things like the bounce of a classmate's step as she walks down the hallway, the way a friend's hand always strays to her backpack strap or the way a person scratches his head in confusion. I have come to see the people around me not on the way they look but on their nuances that give away who they really are. While images and the outward physical appearance of people appear blurry to me, I see more clearly than how people think I do. I will not deny that I do get jealous of normal sighted people sometimes. They will never feel the burden of having an annoying contraption in front of their eyes for the rest of their life or accidentally poking their irises trying to put on contact lenses every day while running late. They will never always have to sit at the front row during class discussions. They will never experience the constant fear of breaking an eyewear during sports in Physical Education. Yet, I am grateful for the sight that I have for I learned to look at the world not as what it is but for the things that make it what it is. “Nixie!” a high – pitched voice calls me. I look around the hallway and see a figure coming towards me. Her face is a blank canvas yet to be painted of its features by my eyes for she is still far away but there is no mistaking of her gait, the rounded shoulders and the curves that hug her body. Without hesitation, I raise my hand in a wave and smile at my friend.