My mother cannot see my face
as I stand in the family room

five feet from her—you’re all shadow,
she says—sending a shudder through me

not only because her vision has been
dimming for years, but also because

I, too, now nightly deposit the same
brand of wishful drops in my eyes

that she has used for decades,
hoping to slow the unshakeable stride

of glaucoma. Perhaps her devoted
application has delayed what seems

inevitable, though she has long complained
that many restaurants are too dark—

and I agree—or that someone needs to turn
on more lights. And she understandably

balked when the ophthalmologist told
her that she could no longer drive safely.

I am one of her drivers now, as are my sister
and a few other women who chauffeur her

through her busy life. People look at photos
of the two of us, saying how much I look

like my mother. And though we do not see
the resemblance, I know that I carry her

hazel eyes, her DNA, her fierce independence.
I pray that somehow, behind my irises,

cosmic forces conspire on my behalf to—
please, eye gods—keep me seeing clearly.

Neither of us is ready to give up the light.