Have you ever seen the tulips in Central Park?
They’re a brilliant crimson—bright like blood,
gushing out of the young girl’s eye
when all her blood vessels popped.

She had yellow hair
and a big pink smile
but her eyes were blue
and unseeing.

She was sitting next to me,
singing to the birds,
and I asked her what the tune was
and she replied,
“Have you ever seen the tulips in Central Park?”

I raised my eyebrow at her.
“I’ve never heard of such a song.”
And she laughed
because she knew I never did.

We were sitting out by the creek,
watching the red fish swimming in the water
blowing bubbles and smiling freely—full of spirit,
full of life.

“But seriously,”
she said, tucking a yellow curl
behind her ear.
“Have you ever seen them?”

I looked at her.
I wondered why she should care.
She was blind after all.
She didn’t know how they looked;
she never would.

She turned to me
and for a moment
I thought her eyes were piercing
through me;
I felt her gaze cutting open
my chest, splattering
crimson blood from my heart
onto the yellow grass.

For a moment,
I was so certain she could see,
I asked her if she had seen them,
those flowers in Central Park.
I immediately regretted my question;
I tried to retrace my steps,
but she put up her hand
and shushed me.

“I have,” She replied
and I asked her how that could be;
she’s been blind all her life;
how could she have seen?

And with a trickling laugh
like the red paint on the side of
my hand,
dripping into the soil, reminding me of blood,
she replied,
“I’ve seen the birds cry
and the bees die;
I’ve seen his kiss
on the other girl’s lips;
I see her pain as she pushes
him away; I see the sad boy
with the girl he loves
loving him back,
but he refuses to take her hand;
I’ve seen children kill
and mothers fight;
I’ve seen fathers rape
and young boys lie;
I’ve seen scarred girls
and suicidal preachers;
I’ve seen smiling faces
on young corpses;
I’ve seen battered skin
shriveling off the dying toddler;
I’ve seen families buried under the
sand at the beach and parents sparring
while their children scream;
I’ve seen a twin crying over her sister’s
dead body; I’ve seen a mother rejoicing
over the birth of her new daughter;
I’ve seen the warmth of the sun
on my face; I’ve seen the sweet
child hold the crying girl’s hand;
I’ve seen the smell of my aunt’s
cherry pie—filled with such beautiful
red, red… Why, I’ve seen every shade
of red; I’ve seen every flower
on my grandpa’s grave; I’ve seen
every tulip in Central Park. My question is,
have you? Have you seen them?”

And I looked at her.
And I realized,
my true answer was no.
I didn’t see a thing
that time I went to New York,
and gazed at those flowers sprouting from their
concrete boxes in the middle of the street.
Because while I was looking,
I wasn’t really seeing—
the scratched petals,
the chopped stems,
the dying buds,
the dying friend…

So now, here I am,
sitting in the square;
and I see the flowers
and they’re this brilliant red.
Red like my trembling lips,
red like my eyes the night I cried,
cried for the blind girl’s death,
cried for my best friend;
red like the laughter we shared
that night in the summer-sun;
red like the changing leaves in Autumn;
red like she saw once—

Now she’s gone,
and it’s so sad;
it’s so painful;
she was the only one
who ever saw a thing…
Now I’m looking for someone with eyes
like hers—

Eyes that know what it is
to have loved and to have lost.
Eyes that know the true color
of the tulips in Central Park.