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.
4 comments:
Hello! This is Meisha from Andalusia, Alabama! You may not remember me but if you do, please respond
Hey Meisha!!!!!
How are you girl?!?! Of course I remember you!Meisha Jackson: aka my first best friend! :o) I can't view your profile (they say your profile is private) so I really hope you come back to this page to see this comment. You called me once when I was at Spelman and left a msg but you didn't leave your number and I didn't have caller ID! I tried to find you recently on Facebook but I couldn't.:o( Maybe we can finally reconnect! Please leave another comment if you come back and see this so we can figure out how to privately exchange email addresses and catch up! (If you are on facebook please look for me under Ruqayyah Muhammad in Johannesburg South Africa...I live here now).Soooo excited about hopefully reconnecting with you girl!!!
I found you, I found you! I'm so happy I'm aboutto cry!!!! I looked you up on facebook so add me if you see the request!
salaam,
some of us were born into the internet age and others are assimilating along the way. i completely forgot about myspace!! after reading your poem (make it count)i feel like my life is privileged. your reality may sometimes seem insignificant, however, it is truly a service to humanity...your poems, stories, daily life entries, newletters, experiences...listening to amatur-rahman on the phone (her sweet little voice), the hopeful idea that muhammad represents that striving men who love the faith are still a possibility in this reality...cont. to strive and you will be rewarded...i love you, sia safiyah
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