It’s the quality of the light I notice most, its tints and texture, gradients and shading. The lick of flame from a gas burner is startlingly blue, another band in the spectrum. In the morning, window shades glow with a brilliant border. Bright light is everywhere, saturating the landscape, pouring in windows, illuminating forgotten corners. The light has become a place of its own.

When Mom’s cataracts were removed years ago, she looked at a room she’d recently painted and realized she hated the shade of green she’d chosen. We’d wondered what she’d seen in it. Turns out, she hadn’t seen it at all, only its yellowed cousin. Once she glimpsed the real hue, she repainted.

For me it’s the blues that have been a revelation. The cerulean paisley seat cushions on the deck, azure reflections in the glass-topped table, whites so bright they burn blue.

It makes sense: the cloudy lens is gone, a new one in its place. But nothing could have prepared me for the clean, bright world I would encounter in its wake. A world of new light.