Everything went back to normal:Grandma dead again, meeyeing the farmer’s sons,trying to pull off my glovesas roughly as they did theirs.Mom no longer lamentedthe eye surgery’s failure,the victory of astigmatism.The night’s averse strippedaway the bridal snow.I looked out the window at therubbery blacktopand thought of the war betweenmy grandmother’s faithand her devotion to me.I thought of my mother’s sacrifices,including her voice, neglectedfor years. At Christmas,sitting next to me on the pianobench, she looked throughbifocals and read sheetmusic, silently relieved.She felt naked, without somuch as a swaddling cloth,the few days she seemedto have outgrown her glasses.We both started to feelthe rapport and rivalrybetween eyes and lenses,faith and devotion, aversionand flood.