In bed that night, as the moonlight reached high tide under my chin, I realized that in fact I understood the question perfectly. I just didn't want to answer it (19.52).
She taught me to revel. She taught me to wonder. She taught me to laugh (20.8).
She saw things. I had not known there was so much to see.
She was forever tugging my arm and saying, "Look!"
I would look around, seeing nothing. "Where?"
She would point. "There."
In the beginning I still could not see. She might be pointing to a doorway, or a person, or the sky. But such things were so common to my eyes, so undistinguished, that they would register as "nothing." I walked in a gray world of nothings (20.9-13)