I had seen Dr. I. lean forward on his rolling leather-topped stool and peer into my siblings’ eyes and had wondered what he saw there, usually while he worked a small mint in between his cheek and jaw.
I had always been the extra child until this visit, when my eyes were to be examined. I was maybe eleven years old.
As I rested my forehead on the curved piece of metal, I understood the purpose of the mint. The cool smell pierced through the mild anxiety at having someone so close to my face.
“Yep, another one with her father’s eyes! All right, another with glasses for you! What’ll that be? Six children with glasses? Well, at least her teeth look good, Mrs. B.!”