He used to know how blue and purple were different. But now the sundown and blue noon have melted both their colors. All’s a blur, though not yet like the nights that cloud the moon. Sight dim with tears and sickness, he inquires: “H-hun, what color are your eyes?” Her green iris gone pupil-black. By winter, fires only project dim ghosts on a giant screen. While learning to play Braille’s connect-the-dots, and listening to TV in his room, the lids lift for old time’s sake when he spots a thing like a brown mitten in the gloom move back and forth. And his enfeebled eye makes out his hand that waves goodbye.