I stare across time and space to a distant future where I see an old woman in a dimly lit room. Her face is covered with wrinkles and her body, which still has echoes of its former sturdiness, is now clearly exhausted from a long life of service to its owner. She lays silently on what seems to be her death bed. Her eyes, watery and yellow, call out to me in a silent plea. “Make it count” they seem to say. Suddenly I realize that those pleading eyes are strangely familiar. I know those eyes! Those eyes stare back at me every day from the mirror. The old woman dying in the dim room has my eyes. And they are saying “Make it count.”
Beside her sits an elegant middle aged woman. Her eyes look lovingly on the old woman as she grasps the frail, lined, hand. Suddenly she casts a glance over her shoulder to see what her mother is gazing at so intently. I recognize immediately the deep pools of blackness, ever dancing with a hint of laughter, as the eyes of my daughter. The eyes are older than I know them but still deep and still dancing. Who have you become? I long to ask. What has life held for you? She too remains silent, but how her eyes talk to me. “Make it count” they say.
Suddenly the scene changes and I see my own mother. Decades have been lifted to reveal her in her youth. She is humming as she caresses a belly full with baby. She doesn’t yet fully understand the sacrifice and toil this first child will exact of her neither does she know that seven more will follow. She doesn’t yet anticipate the hours of washing and scrubbing and worrying and advising. She doesn’t think of the shouting and tears and planning and work that her new role will require for so many years. But her eyes are already filled with the love that will never leave them through it all. “Make it count” say her loving eyes.
The next eyes I see are unfamiliar. No, I can’t say unfamiliar, though I’ve certainly never seen them. For my eyes, and those of my mother and daughter, still retain something of those of this unknown ancestor. The woman’s face is stern and weathered. She has clearly had neither the time nor the inclination for pampering. But there is a beauty there which even the long years of neglect cannot hide. In those stern eyes which I recognize but do not know there is a silent order. “Make it count” they say.
Make it count.
Beside her sits an elegant middle aged woman. Her eyes look lovingly on the old woman as she grasps the frail, lined, hand. Suddenly she casts a glance over her shoulder to see what her mother is gazing at so intently. I recognize immediately the deep pools of blackness, ever dancing with a hint of laughter, as the eyes of my daughter. The eyes are older than I know them but still deep and still dancing. Who have you become? I long to ask. What has life held for you? She too remains silent, but how her eyes talk to me. “Make it count” they say.
Suddenly the scene changes and I see my own mother. Decades have been lifted to reveal her in her youth. She is humming as she caresses a belly full with baby. She doesn’t yet fully understand the sacrifice and toil this first child will exact of her neither does she know that seven more will follow. She doesn’t yet anticipate the hours of washing and scrubbing and worrying and advising. She doesn’t think of the shouting and tears and planning and work that her new role will require for so many years. But her eyes are already filled with the love that will never leave them through it all. “Make it count” say her loving eyes.
The next eyes I see are unfamiliar. No, I can’t say unfamiliar, though I’ve certainly never seen them. For my eyes, and those of my mother and daughter, still retain something of those of this unknown ancestor. The woman’s face is stern and weathered. She has clearly had neither the time nor the inclination for pampering. But there is a beauty there which even the long years of neglect cannot hide. In those stern eyes which I recognize but do not know there is a silent order. “Make it count” they say.
Make it count.
