[This was inspired by my grannies' love story]

Her Eyes

The first thing I saw were her eyes – two thin lines, like a blade's slice on a paper – so squinty that even her pupils weren’t visible. Could she even see? Her high cheekbones, pale skin, piggish nose, silky hair, what was she doing here, in a school of a town so white that even me, a product of a white father and a black mother, looked alien? Yet, I knew I appreciated her presence. When she walked in our class, sat next to me, I wasn’t bothered, I didn’t run away from her. I was glad I had a friend. A person who wouldn’t judge me because I was different.

She spoke to me with what little English she knew. I remember waiting, patiently, for her to put her thoughts in a sentence. In a broken English, she’d said, “Sebastian, di..difficulttt name. I…I like but.

Over time, her progress was remarkable. She took to poetry, started writing them, read Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy. I felt ashamed when she showed me her marks two years after she’d arrived. She had elevated above me, reached heights I thought only people born with English speaking parents could accomplish.

Now, forty years from that time, its still her eyes I’m staring at. Those sliced lines have stuck with me for all those times, bore my two daughters and a son.

I’m nothing but old bones now. My heart is failing. With screeching sound, exhausting every part of my body, I take every breath. My bones rattle when I move my hands, furrowed skin coats my body, but she’s here, with rheumy eyes, nursing me all the time.

I know I’ll close my eyes in a while, depart, leave my little girl, but I know in my soul, I’ll take those eyes with me. When we meet later, I know I’ll always remember her. For thank god she had such beautiful eyes.