I am used
to the splotches of rain
on my windshield
as I drive down winding country roads
swerving to miss vagabonding deer
looking for life on the other side. 
That’s why I don’t mind
the finger prints on my glasses
from my constant pushing
to their place on the bridge of my nose. 
The lenses have become scratched
from my repeated pressing
and I no longer see the scars 
on the glass. 
“How can you see like that?” 
my mother asks. 
“Simple,” I reply. 
“I could never see clearly
in the first place.”