By Hannah Cole-

“I’d like to see the moon again,” Jennifer said, “Not moons, plural, just the one.”

I didn’t understand her.

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We were having coffee on a Saturday when it finally sunk in that my best friend couldn’t see. She’d complimented my makeup, which I noticed later was cakey and separating (the bane of our existence). Jen hadn’t been able to find me across the room until I waved my whole arm.

The sun was streaming through the café windows, white clean weekend light, and I peered into her eyes, marking the rim of her contact lenses, seeking out the film, as if I could

peel it off.

At first, she said, there had just been two moons, or three, like misregistered newspaper

printing. I’d noticed she’d become more hesitant to drive at night. Improperly lit stairs troubled

her. Jen had started to use voice-to-text a lot more, uncharacteristically terse in its punctuation. I

could always tell. I’ve known her since I was barely out of my teens.

It’s hard, maybe for anyone, to see your heroes need something you can’t understand.

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I’ve known Jennifer as an artist. Painting, singing, dancing, making comics, crocheting,

hand-sewing clothes for herself and her friends – it was in her blood. If she wasn’t working on a

project, something was wrong. Anyone who knows her well knows that lately her fascination has

been with perfumes, the collection and layering of scents. An art form that requires a different

sense altogether.

In the café that day, I was almost happy for her. There was finally a diagnosis. I remembered when my grandma couldn’t stop talking about the magic of LASIK.

“It’s like The Wizard of Oz,” My grandma said, about the removal of her cataracts.

Like everything was suddenly in technicolor.

My grandma was almost 80, though. Jen is only 54.

While Jennifer quietly battled symptoms for two years, optometrists messed with her corrective lens prescription, tested her eyes in sharp puffs of air and quizzes about flashing lights.

I, ever her late-acquired little sister, her protégé, I didn’t think about it much. I didn’t want to.

When Jen looked at the sky she saw a halo of moons.

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She received her diagnosis in September. It was another six months before Jennifer landed the first appointment for the surgeries that would remove the cataracts and restore her vision.

However, not long after our coffee, Jen was laid off. Her health insurance runs out at the end of next month.

Then she found that even with that insurance, it costs $2000 per eye, paid at point of service. Her first is scheduled for March 2nd. And then there will be the other.

Currently searching for a new job, Jen doesn’t have that kind of money at hand. Honestly, I'd be hard-pressed to think of anyone we know who does. I remember when I broke my ankle and needed bone surgery – this is worse than that.

Jennifer can’t see a computer screen clearly, even zoomed in. She can’t sew or draw or even write much anymore.

She told me, “It’s like I’m inside a dirty smeared glass looking out at the world.”

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I don’t know if you know Jennifer, but you’d be lucky to. The world isn’t the same without her sharp green eyes.

If you have any money to spare, please donate. Even a tiny donation makes a difference.

If you don't, just share this. That makes a difference too.

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This is Memphis; nothing is done for us we can’t do for each other. Let's show Jennifer how important she is to our community.

Let’s help Jennifer see.

- Hannah Cole