Every time… seriously. No matter what it is that goes wrong, your eyes give you away. And this story I’m living right now? It’s written on my eyes. And that’s where you can see how bad the story is, because I think my eyes have aged a decade in less than two weeks.
10 years. Wow.
I’m surviving, barely, but only because I’ve gotten so far behind on schoolwork and I’m having to scramble in order to rescue this semester. Yes, my Professors have all been very understanding. More so than I expected. But nothing makes two papers and finals in less than a week any more palatable. Nothing makes it more manageable. And right now I’m just trying to keep it together.
PS I still haven’t returned to work, that’s tomorrow. That’s where I heard this terrible news. I’m actually afraid of a place now. And I’m not alone, since my Sister and I had this exact discussion yesterday and she too shares that dread with me. I know, it’s a place, and she didn’t die there, but I’m positive my screams of terror are still going to ring in my ears when I pull back into the parking lot.
But back to my eyes… my tired, sad eyes. They look so old. Like they’ve seen too much. Like they know too much. They do. They know I hurt. Deep inside. But I’m pulling up my socks and I’m moving forward. I have to. Life is for the living. Apparently that is me.
Although I’m not entirely sure that is correct. Not all the time anyway.
But my eyes are giving me away. They are still mourning. They keep leaking at unexpected times, when I think of something else Mom is going to miss. When I think of something she won’t be with us for. There is just so much.
And my eyes are missing her. They want to see her. Alive. Not like they saw her last. Dead. I need the same thing. My eyes know me so well. They read my heart. They see. Too much. And that’s why they look so old.
I’m sure none of you will be surprised that in the midst of all the disaster management I was performing last week, one of my biggest concerns was how my eyes looked. Seriously, I was focusing on vanity, as my life fell apart. Because I needed to try to control at least one small thing, even if I couldn’t control anything else. It didn’t work. I bought three different magic potions, applied all of them, and then promptly cried them off. Nothing can withstand tears. Nothing. Tears are Kryptonite. So I’ve given up. My eyes look old now. They’re creased, and tired, and likely to stay that way.
There’s nothing I can do.
I can’t unsee this. I can’t go back. I’ve tried. I’ve bargained, and yelled, and begged. And I’m still here, with my eyes still seeing her, and she’s no longer alive. That’s hard. Harder than wrinkles. Harder than aging. Harder than just about anything. And my eyes know that better than me.
Look for the beauty today. See the good. And hope for healing. For my eyes, and my heart.
They both need it.