We’re closing up the house to go to Geneva tomorrow to see an ophthalmologist. I’m scared. I’m 57 this year and the scientific journals and WebMD tell me that seeing floating black dots is normal at my age. The French have a nice way of putting it. I am, in effect, seeing flying flies. It captures it neatly, I think.

Well, flying flies I do NOT wish on anyone, young or old. I cannot help but think of a very beautiful cousin in Hong Kong, who married a handsome well-to-do businessman. They moved in the right circles and had money coming out of their ears. She has jewelry in every possible color and size and design. Gowns, dresses, outfits in every conceivable length and style. Bags and wallets with every brand name Paris or Italy could ever come up with. She’s been everywhere, done it all, seen it all.

Now she can’t. She’s blind. She can no longer see the glitter of her ruby and diamond necklace; she has to ask her helper the color of the dress she is feeling between her fingers; she cannot see the face in the mirror at the hairdresser’s.  She is still beautiful at 65. She has grown old gracefully.

My sister, who sometimes puts her foot in her mouth, said, “I don’t know how you do it. How you can live with it; how calm you are!”

“I can remember. The beautiful places and things I’ve seen.” It was said in an ordinary everyday tone, as though she were talking about the weather.

A new way of seeing, not through touch but through memories. I was astounded.

Was she always like this? Or was this the public face she put on? Or was today just a good day?

Her “I can remember” stays with me now. As I get ready to drive on the French highway tomorrow, I cannot help but wonder, “How long will I be able to drive?” Will I have to learn Braille?

Can I live on memories? Will I remember what sky blue looks like? I do not want to touch the planes of my son’s face to see him. I do not want my hands to see for me. I want my eyes.

Can memories be as sharp, as real? What if memory fails or fades? Am I my memories?

Wouldn’t it be better not to see but remember than see and not know who my son is? A dear friend’s mother has Alzheimer’s and although she can see she doesn’t remember the shopping sprees they went on, the speeding ticket she managed to get out of by using her old age, the laughs they had over coffee.

What would you choose?