Looking Through Different Eyes

I looked through your eyes. And when I did, the world was all blues, purples and greens. The colors were fresh, the sounds and feelings new. A new perspective was in my own gaze, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Those were eyes that would light up when I walked into a room; those were eyes that grew dim with each passing day, as the disease pulled the life from your body. Those eyes could flash like a burning fire, or twinkle like the stars on a cloudless night. They would narrow and widen, laugh merrily without making a sound. They reminded me of my own eyes, and the eyes of my father, and that memory hurt, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. The overwhelming feeling that you knew what I was thinking, and that you knew what I would do next, was still there. The way that you could read human emotions so well, was now passed down to me. I could empathize with the smallest or the greatest, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Looking through them made me see beyond the confines of the hospital room, beyond the white sheets and flattened pillows. I saw beyond even those ugly yellow walls, when I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. And I saw what I didn’t want to see. I could see behind me, the years flowing like a long, long river. Sometimes they went gently, over the smooth rocks and under the floating ducks. Sometimes it was raging, as the storm over the river sent lightning and thunder, and the water splashed and crashed against those smooth and silent stones. The years hadn’t been gentle to you, but I still saw them, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. I could see the face looking back at me. The face was my own, lined with worry, prominent wrinkles at the corners of my face, lines on my forehead. I worried only for you. I could see that you wanted to make my pain go away, but you couldn’t, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Every pain, every memory, every bad thing that you shielded me from played like a movie before me. The times where we didn’t have enough, and you sacrificed so that I wouldn’t have to be the one who did. Those other times where we walked hand in hand, blissful, happy, unknowing – I saw it all, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Those eyes so often hidden by those square, wire-rimmed glasses; those eyes that weren’t always hidden behind them, but age necessitated they be. You needed those to see the numbers in front of you, but you didn’t need them to see when I was doing something wrong. Those glasses would smudge and smear, but still the eyes remained bright and blue. The perception was mine, now, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. And I saw the hurt and betrayal of the years gone by. I could see, even as you did, when people would walk away. Those eyes that watched when your friends couldn’t be found, when your mother was absent, and when the siblings were lost; the eyes that held strength and comfort as you marched on, even after the hurt – that’s what I saw, when I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Every time you got up to work and the day flashed before like a dreary, dark, and sad existence can, I watched as you continued on, day after day, not complaining, or even explaining. The hurt was still there, but you pressed on, and I could now see the courage, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. Those eyes held sympathy and a little humor when I scraped my arm as a child; those eyes watched as I made wrong decisions as a teen; those eyes smiled when I grew into an adult that made you proud. Those eyes held only joy when you held your first grandchild in your arms. I knew it was hard on you being there, but I didn’t know how much, until I saw, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. I could see the loneliness behind the gaze. The sadness and emptiness without my father, even though you still had me. You might’ve wiped a tear or two from your eyes, but I never saw. I never knew what all you had done for me, until I saw through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. The eyes that are now cloudy once were clear. Now, I wasn’t even sure if you saw me, if you really knew me. You would come in and out of consciousness, your eyes remaining closed. Seeing through your eyes was so much harder now, as now I had to look through my own. My own didn’t want to see what you saw -- what you wanted to come before I did, what you knew would be the end result. I closed my eyes and blocked off my thoughts, so I wouldn’t have to see the end, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. But now, I couldn’t see anything when I did. Your eyes were closed, unseeing. The glasses lay on the bedside table, and beside them lay my handkerchief, so I could blot up my tears. If I could, I would see the end was near, as I looked through your eyes.

I looked through your eyes. I could see my hand holding yours. That fluid-filled, wrinkled hand, that wasn’t squeezing mine in return.  I could see the last few times that I told you I loved you, and you smiled the best you could, but it wasn’t in your eyes. You didn’t want to be here anymore, and I’m sorry it had to be this way. I didn’t even get to look into your eyes at the end and see the laughter and mischief I knew so well. I didn’t get to thank you, with tears brimming at the corners of my own eyes -- like I wanted to, but throughout the grief and the heartache of this moment, I had a new perspective, because I looked through your eyes.