empty.  Why open my eyes?  Why get out of bed?
     "Good morning, sweetheart."  Al.  My husband was trying to sound as cheerful as the birds outside.  He sat on the bed and took my hand.  We'd had a won- derful life together for 28 years.  He worked in state government, and I was a CPA.  After I became blind in 1993, I lost my job.  Who wanted a blind accountant?  I re- fused to go off to a rehab center.

"I don't care what you do.  Just do something!"  There was a tone in his voice I'd never heard before.  Something hit the bed.
     I reached down.  My hands touched cool metal.  I felt around.  A long,  narrow box.  I opened it, and knew what it was by the smell of the paint.  Watercolors.  When Al heard that art could be therapeutic for people like me, he'd enrolled me in a sculpture class, but it ended up being canceled. 

So I learned the basics on my own-walking, dressing, feeding myself, finding my way around the house.  Through it all, Al was my rock.  Still, I wasn't satisfied with the progress I'd made.  As far as I could tell, I was in for a life of frustration.  I didn't want to accept that I was blind.
       "What do you want to do to-day?"  Al asked, as he did almost every morning.  I just burrowed under the covers.  I felt Al's weight leave  the  bed.      "Lisa,"  he  said,

Now he wants me to paint!   I rubbed the little pockets of paint, and the texture felt good beneath my fingers. Which is red? I wondered.  Yellow?  Blue?  I picked up the paintbrush and stroked it across my cheek.  God help me accept my blindness.  I'd try this for Al's sake.
      I dabbled with the paints.  Just  scribbles and swirls, but it was fun.  I couldn't  see the color or depth, but the vague shapes I made were interesting.  Encouraged,  Al