In the Eyes

I read somewhere that eyes never grow from birth to death. That, when you gaze upon that pinkness of newborn perfection, you see the same eyes that will decades later cry over a failed marriage, or mist at the sight of the Great Wall of China. It is true that when you see a baby, their eyes are the dominant force on their pudgy little faces, even my sky blues, that were once held up by the wall of chub that were my soft cheeks.

It makes one wonder, about the greatness of change we experience in ourselves. That we can be given these little round circles, placed neatly in sockets and protected by a skin-curtain, and while the rest of our body sprouts and stretches our way of seeing the world does not. Is this an argument for nature? Perhaps. Perhaps there is some meaning in the fact that the objects that flip the world upside down and view it remain unchanging no matter our years or experiences.

Sometimes, I look at pictures of myself. When I was young, and my smile nearly reached my temples and my ringlets were loose. My eyelashes were never caked with mascara and my lips were just as pleased with an otter pop as they are now with passion. I try to connect myself to the little girl, the one my parents say was so sweet and would lose entire afternoons playing Dollhouse. I find that the only real thing that brings me to her, are those eyes, for I know them, recognize them as though they are an ancestor from long ago that has returned to a dusty village, and I gravitate toward them. For in those eyes, those unabashed eyes, I can find who I once was. Some days this makes me weep. I must admit that I am much changed, and though I still ache over people's pain and try desperately to shine with any kind of incandescence, I fear I am no longer selfless.

But this is how it goes, is it not? The change is as constant as the ebb and flow of hope and darkness. But I do love looking at my nephew, my darling Carter, and thinking that one day he will stare back at me as a man. He probably will be taller than me, and I will have one of those short mom haircuts and a homemade macaroni necklace that my twins made me (gasp!), but I will forever recognize his angelic eyes.

Perhaps this is why parents can never let go of those precious early years. You will always be puffed with childhood delight to your parents. Like a lovely pastry, you will always be sweet and protected on a china dish. We should rejoice in it. There are so few people that will ever remember you so well.

As I leave for work, I gaze once more in the mirror, and my battle continues. Perhaps I will never connect Krissy, (my childhood name), and the woman I am now, but I may have many afternoons trying. I think the point is, all these little parts are me, and that is something I have to believe in.