I'm lost and it's late.

Tomorrow, the bandages will come off. I wonder will I see half an orange, half an apple, half my mother's face with my one remaining eye?

I did not see the bullet but felt its pain exploding in my head. His image did not vanish, the soldier with a big gun, unsteady hands, and a look in his eyes I could not understand.

If I can see him so clearly with my eyes closed, it could be that inside our heads we each have one spare set of eyes to make up for the ones we lose.

Next month, on my birthday, I'll have a brand new glass eye, maybe things will look round and fat in the middle---I've gazed through all my marbles, they make the world look strange.

I hear a nine-month-old has also lost an eye, I wonder if my soldier shot her too--a soldier looking for little girls who look him in the eye--I'm old enough, almost four, I've seen enough of life, but she's just a baby who didn't know any better.