Don’t do that. Don’t squint your eyes and make them into wiggly lines with balls sticking out, like little peapods. Don’t smush your face so that the skin cinches at the top of your cheeks, and then unhinge your mouth dropping it open. You’re killing me.
I know you’re just trying to see something - the cactus I’m pointing to in front of that house, the menu posted above the counter written in tiny font, your children on the monkey bars but the sun is in your eyes. You’re looking for the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, and I should be helping you. But I can’t. I can’t witness you in this moment, scanning and disoriented.
#1 you look weird. There’s no nice way for me to say that. But #2 is the real kicker because you’re vulnerable. You’re missing out on something, searching for the bullseye, trying to catch up.
The absolute worst is when you spot the very thing, and it registers all over your face, without any game, rather an overt display of revelation. You see it! I should be happy, I should be relieved, I should be glad to welcome back your regular eyes. But my lastima remembers your slits, your peapods, your effort, your hoping. And that’s my pot of gold.
p.s. If it’s your vision, get glasses. The eye doctor (and my lastima) will thank you.