Eyes

Moria was the first non-speaking person I ever met. I was already twenty-four years old, working as a music therapy intern at a special school in Jerusalem. She was twelve.

Moria would steer her powered wheelchair with perfect confidence, using only two toes of her thin left foot. She commanded her surroundings as firmly as she moved the wheelchair, with her bright blue gaze peering out from beneath the untamed, short yellow hair. Her athetoid body was in a constant, involuntary motion — an ongoing storm of arms, legs, torso, and head. Strangely, this restless choreography conveyed everything she wanted, or didn’t want, and what she felt and needed. Her eyes were more expressive than any professional communication board, just like that thick album tied with a red ribbon to the back of her chair, used only by the school speech therapist.

At night back home, I would dream that Moria could stand upright, walk and run, that she could speak and behave just like any other twelve-year-old girl. In those dreams, it felt so natural -