Monday, March 11, 2013

The eyes and the soul

I have a story to tell, her eyes beseeched.

Fragile emerald veins, the evidence of the years cobwebbing across pale, white skin. A faint pulse ticks the passing seconds, each one a reminder of the memories lived with each inhale and exhale of breath.

Her hands are still elegant, with only a faded wedding band on her slim tapered fingers. These hands held his in a sunlit meadow, put the ring on her husband’s on their wedding day, and cradled her children, soothed cuts, bruises and combed back unruly curls.

Lips that were once rosy and full, now a shadow of whispered love, of bedtime stories and kisses that cured scraped knees and wise words that balmed broken hearts. Sometimes, they remember her, always armed with a winsome smile and a razor sharp retort for low esteem days, kind words for dark days, and a joke for days when even the clouds seem heavier and burdened.

But it is her eyes that do the speaking. These cool calm pools belying the feisty outspoken girl, the willful teenager, and the courageous woman. It is her eyes that are arresting, hooked up on tubes and often alone, her eyes blaze with the life that refuses to be tamed down simply because time lost the tag team race with age.

I have a story to tell, her eyes beseeched.

*** How often we forget the elderly and the wonderful lives they've led. How often we forsake to see that we're but a bud grafted onto the trees nurtured by the ones who lived and saw these things way before we ever did *** 

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