blind

As is the case with most, the earliest memories I can conjure are unpleasant. For some reason the pain stays with us, resonating in our memories every time we reach for them. The person who installed me was rushed and rough, taking no great care for my state of comfort. The large, clumsy fingers rammed screws through my brackets, pinning me to the wood above the window. There was a grinding as he screwed the metal into the wood. There were so many screws. When I'd been successfully mounted, they yanked my cord. For the first month it seemed, I was alone but for the occasional visitor who wanted only to pull my cord. I would collapse, all my slats coming together like a stack, rising above the window so they could peer out. I was beginning to feel like nothing more than an nuisance. I wondered why they wanted me around if they only wanted to see around me. My existence was becoming very bleak until one day some visitors arrived and decided to stay. I watched every move they made. I admired the way they moved, the parts and pieces that made them up. I was so in love with them. And after a few days they began showing me they loved me. At first they would come up to me and stick their fingers between my slats. It tickled and made me squirm. Every time they let my slats fall closed I wanted them to peek out again. Next to the tickling, my favorite was when they'd twist my wand, causing my slats to turn, warming the underside in the sun. I loved turning. To my very great delight there was a little one in the house who enjoyed twisting my wand as much as I did turning. On one or two occasions he want overboard, turning so much it made me dizzy. The worst sensation was often provided by a tiny thing I never did get a good look at. Perhaps the dog or the baby. Sometimes the small thing caught my cord as it dangled to the ground. The pull wasn't consistent, causing one half of my slats to rise while the other side remained down. It caused a sense of vertigo to permeate my existence. The sense of spilling would come over me, gripping me with anxiety. My own discomfort was the root of the problem they usually had righting me after such an incident. I shudder with the memory. The visitors were good to me. Gently they pulled my cord to raise and lower my slats. Frequently they ran a soft, smooth duster over me, brushing off the itchy dust particles that accumulated on my surfaces. When they used my door, they were careful not to slam it. Despite all their care, I could feel my screws coming loose over time. The wood was straining to hold them, and they were straining to hold me. We spent months fighting the battle against gravity, until one day the visitors had a visitor. He was huge. His shadow in the doorway when he arrived made my purpose null and void. In tow, he had a great big dog. Its head came up past the door knob. I knew if he stood, he'd maul me with those dangerous and clumsy paws. I'd seen it happen to the couch. Things were fine. They seemed to enjoy having the big man around. One day, he got the children so excited for an outing, they ran one-by-one out the door, each pull and sway putting indescribable pressure on me and those screws. When everyone was out, the big man patted his monstrously large dog and exited through my door. His enormous arm pulled a little too hard, causing my door to hit the jamb with a little too much force. The screws made a terrible grinding sound and gave out. In a flash of light and noise, I clattered to the floor. A commotion of dust swirled around. I hadn't realized it'd been so long since last I felt the caress of the duster. I felt so embarrassed, so disappointed to have fallen from my position above the window. Too much light was coming in. They'd be so upset with me when they returned. Then, as if to add injury to insult, that great big dog sauntered over to see what all the noise had been about. The clumsy creature took no care of where he stepped. He crunched two of my slats beneath his heavy paw. The sound of a snap and a crinkle rang out through the entryway. The dog's ears perked, and I saw the faces of every man, woman, and child that had ever come through this room. I remembered every hand--delicate, pudgy, sweaty, calloused--that had wrapped around my cord. They all pulled differently. But none of it mattered now, because the beast liked the sound of my slats cracking and bending. In a matter of seconds he was all over me. His front paws pushed while his back paws pulled. I felt some slats break in two. Some were torn at the eyelet, rendering my strings useless for raising and lowering them. I was being brutally destroyed, and no one was around to save me. The dog tired after what felt like hours. For some time it would attack, then leave, then return to destroy me some more. By the time it disappeared for good, I was in a dozen pieces. The sun had set, the room was dark. I worried they wouldn't find me until morning when they needed me again. I was so scared and so alone, broken on the floor. And then I was being lifted into the air. Two careful hands had gathered all my parts. I was being moved out of the house, away from the beast. That was good enough for me. I was carried into the garage and placed in a heap on the table. After some time, everyone else returned. Within the house the big dog was scolded. I took no satisfaction in this, because throughout all the shouting and speaking, two words kept standing out to me. Wood blinds. Wood blinds. "I've been thinking of putting in wood blinds for a while." I thought of my window. It would be so bare without me. I remembered the tickling fingers, how amazing they felt. I hated that stupid animal for ruining me. I hoped they'd kick the big man out. As it was, the big man took responsibility of making things right. He spent a great deal of time in the garage, working with super glue and vices and Creedence Clearwater Revival. He had very nimble fingers for his size. I observed patiently as he put me back together. When his work was finished, I felt different. Incomplete. I knew how I looked. I knew I didn't belong on the door anymore. In fact, when the time eventually came for the big man to leave, he tucked me beneath his great big arm and carried me out the door I had always belonged to. I looked up at my window. Sure enough, it was adorned with a beautiful set of white wood blinds. The slats were so thick, so sturdy. So white. The pull string was convenient and short, never to drag on the ground. Its ends were capped with white porcelain teardrops. They were the finest window coverings I had ever witnessed. I envied them with every fiber of my being. The big man placed me in the trunk of his car. He slammed the lid, enclosing me in blackness. There I stayed for days. He never once opened the trunk. He didn't expand my slats or turn them. He didn't tug my string. I felt neglected and unwanted. I considered jamming up forever, tying a knot just beneath my gears so they could never open me again. I realized how irrational I was being, and reminded myself they'd take me out eventually. I thought endlessly of the big man. He hadn't put me back together just so he could keep me in his trunk. I endured the darkness. One magnificent autumn day, the trunk lid swung open. The big man rifled around a bit, moving things, pulling some items into his arms. He didn't even glance at me. He was just about to close the lid again when a bright red leaf swirled past his ear and fell into the open trunk. It landed gracefully on my slats, and I hoped he'd remember why he ever fixed me in the first place. His fingers touched first the leaf, plucking it from me and discarding it outside the vehicle. Then his hand wrapped around me. He lifted me from the trunk and slammed it closed. He carried me--along with the other items--into a building. On every window was a set of blinds that looked just like me! Some were up, some down. People wre all around, some peering between slats. My hopes soared. The big man carried me into a separate room. Everything was white. in the middle of the room was a metal bed, a thin white mattress under a thin white sheet. I didn't have much time to look around. In moments the big man was holding me above the window. He was very careful as he inserted fresh screws into my brackets. He turned them gently, deliberately, as if taking care not to hurt them. When they were all securely in place, the man stepped back. he smiled at me and carefully lowered and raised my slats. It felt so good, like stretching. I was immediately grateful I'd endured the trunk. The big man left. Visitors came and went. I hung around for good news and terrible. I hung around witnessing birth and death. I saw the entire spectrum of human emotion. In a way, I lived. Through it all, I've never stopped getting tickled by peering fingers, turned in the sunlight, and caressed by the delicate surface of the janitor's duster. And for all the years I've hung here, I've never had to deal with another dog.