Excerpt
Word-Blindness Word-blindness.
The doctor hisses it
like a curse.
Word-blindness,
he repeats—some children
can see everything
except words.
They are only blind
on paper.
Fefa will never be able
to read, or write,
or be happy
in school. Word-blindness.
It sounds like an evil wizards
prophecy, dangerous
and dreadful,
but Mamá does not listen
to the serpent voice
of the hissing doctor.
She climbs in the wagon,
clucks to the horse,
and carries us home
to our beautiful green farm,
where she tells me to follow
the good example of Santa Mónica,
patron saint of patience. Word-blindness,
Mamá murmurs
with a suffering sigh—who
ever heard of such an impossible
burden? She refuses to accept
the hissing doctors verdict.
Seeds of learning grow slowly,
she assures me.
Then she lights a tall,
slender candle,
and gives me
a book. I grow anxious.
I pretend that my eyes hurt.
I pretend that my head hurts,
and pretty soon
it is true. I know that the words
want to trick me.
The letters will jumble
and spill off the page,
leaping and hopping,
jumping far away,
like slimy
bullfrogs. Think of this little book
as a garden,
Mamá suggests.
She says it so calmly
that I promise I will try. Throw wildflower seeds
all over each page, she advises.
Let the words sprout
like seedlings,
then relax and watch
as your wild diary
grows. I open the book.
Word-blindness.
The pages are white!
Is this really
a blank diary,
or just an ordinary
schoolbook
filled with frog-slippery
tricky letters
that know how to leap
and escape?