The first thing I notice about this picture is not my eyes, it’s the wrinkles on my forehead and between my eyes. Then I look at my eyes. I like them, especially when I have makeup on to make my lashes long and highlight the color of them. Eventually though, looking at my eyes brings me to the bruised look beneath my right eye, especially. I am not one of those women with permanent and very dark circles, so the bruised look bothers me. Why is it there?
These I understand. I’m 46 and have four, sometimes five, kids. My step-daughter rarely shows up but has been responsible for her share of those wrinkles. The gray hairs, too 😉 And don’t even get me started on my husband! Growing into my old lady-ness is not always easy. I’m used to being young and relatively pretty. With every single crepey wrinkle, I fade a little bit more into invisibility for society. No more neon here, now I’m just a midnight-lit waffle house, attractive to the drunk and hungry.
I see my eyes reflected here in my daughter’s eyes. I see my eyes also reflected in the eyes of all of my children, even my brown-eyed son’s eye-smile and the shape of them. These are not so much the windows to my soul as they are the keys to my immortality.
The things my eyes have seen will die with me. The ghost of them will carry on.