My Mother’s Eyes

I keep forgetting the
colors and shapes
my mother’s eyes carry.
So I trot out of my pretentious
busy life in a metro,
to take a walk down memory lane.
And I always find the bright,
engulfing eyes waiting for me there.

I remember them being blue,
darkening as you look deeper into them,
shielding a world inside.
So, I tried asking my mother
what do you hide so cautiously
behind those eyes.
An ocean, she said.
An ocean, it was, I guess.

They were red once,
guarded by the dark circles of age.
They reeked rage furiously
when she looked at THE other woman.
The rage melted into tears when
she hugged me and hummed.
How much do you hate her, I asked.
Not more than I love you, she said.

Often, my mother’s eyes
had regret written over them.
A toxic relationship;
a job she left;
a life she never had;
a home of lies;
a house too small;
a heart too big.
I wondered what kept her going.
My future, she told.
Now, I knew hers ended the day
I was born.
But she lived for making mine.

You’ve your mother’s eyes,
my father used to say.
And nothing of yours,
I used to reply.
So I step in front of mirrors
to look closely,
to find what really they are made of.
I keep forgetting
my mother’s eyes,
because I so often
mistake them for mine.


Photo by Craig Adderley from Pexels

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