For all the years I knew my grandma, she could barely see. Grandma was legally blind, and yet she knew, by feel, the location of every dish in her kitchen and every work of literature on the bookcase in the living room. I remember especially the bird-like way she peered at things. I'd bring her a copy of my latest school picture, and she'd hold the photo an inch or two from her face, tilt her head to one side, and inspect it before saying, "Very pretty." I used to think she was just being polite, that she really couldn't see me in the picture. But then she'd add, "That pin you're wearing was your mother's." How did she see that little blur on my jacket? The things she could see never failed to amaze me. Watching television with Grandma, I never failed to learn something. Usually it was the complicated plot twist of one of her favorite soap operas—The Guiding Light or As the World Turns. We grandkids would curl up on the big couch while Grandma pulled up a footstool and planted herself right next to the TV, elbows on her knees, to watch the screen. At the commercial break, she'd explain who was marrying whom and who was in the hospital and who had recently come back from the dead. She seemed to have no trouble identifying the characters whom she could barely see. Whether or not she could bring them into sharp focus, they were as real to her as her giggling grandkids. For a treat, we'd sometimes pile into our grandparent's black car for a drive around town: my grandfather at the wheel, my long-legged older brother in the front seat, and Grandma sandwiched between me and my little brother in the back—but sitting so far forward she was practically in the front. I'd imagined all she could see was a blur of images rushing past, yet she could always tell when Grandpa had missed a turn or forgotten to turn on his headlights. Returning home, Grandma would wave at the boy who mowed their lawn and point out the new fruit on the plum tree in their yard. In later years, when I visited from college, Grand