notch from being blind to “legally blind.” It was a huge disappointment to him that he would never drive again. Mom, who was terrified of driving, became the main driver in the family. She set out my father’s clothing every morning because, God forbid, his socks might not match. To decipher the words of the morning paper, my father held the neatly folded pages of The San Francisco Chronicle within inches of his thick bifocal lenses. He kept paper money folded in ascending order in the pocket of his slacks and often made mistakes when counting out bills to us kids. My brothers thought nothing of tricking him out of a five spot by calling it a one. My father was an easy mark. Even so, he is the person who taught me to swim, ride a bike, and drive a car.
I spend my childhood watching my father carefully run his palms against
surfaces, getting to know his surroundings through touch. When we walk, he taps his toes on the ground in front of him to grasp the lay of the land before advancing. Our mother enforces strict rules in our house: No leaving toys, shoes, or other stray objects in his path, though her vigilance cannot keep the mishaps at bay. He steps in hot coals at Drake’s Beach when my brother neglects to warn him they are headed for the fire pit. That very same day—this time under my sister’s watch—he comes up against a cruel rock and breaks his toe. When my father screams, his voice is louder than the waves that are crashing against the shore. Achaaaaghghgh. Then he laughs. It is on my father’s knee that I learn the value of laughter when facing adversity. My two favorite stories happened before the operation, when my father was a student. One day, he took the trolley to the city. He