Light means everything to me. I gradually lost sight throughout my life due to an inherited eye disease. The first symptom was difficulty seeing in dim or dark conditions, which intensified with the progression of the disease. In this sense, light was a yardstick that punctuated each drop in vision. I knew I had lost more vision when I needed more light to see printed material or objects, delivering repeated gut punches of fear at the coming blindness. Autumn’s shrinking hours of daylight only reinforced my sense of loss that could one day be complete when I might not see any light at all.

Not surprisingly, my anxieties heightened with shortening days as light from either end of the day was extinguished, posing navigational and daily living challenges not present in other seasons. Winter school or work commutes were guided by artificial light beacons. Wilderness camping trips were planned to ensure I was in my tent before the last of the fading light. Low vision specialists retooled lamps at work or home to maximize what I could see. Eventually, the relentless march of night, peripheral, and central vision loss robbed me of all sight save for a little light perception that remains during daylight hours, squeezing the curtain of darkness ever tighter around me.