Fissured Colors and Time

His right eye was hazel with a fissure of deep green.  His left eye was blue.  I’ve always liked those kinds of eyes.  And whenever I meet someone with those kinds of eyes, I assume I am in the presence of someone who has insight that I do not possess.  I assume they know something or move about with an awareness that I do not possess.  That those eyes, given to them without any shred of their own consent, have made them special in a way that no one else without those eyes could be special.  Wise, perhaps.  A symbol of an unseen purpose.  That their destiny has a finer point at the end of it all.  Those eyes.  He stared up at me as I hovered in the way that nurses do.  Doing a good work diligently, robotically compassionate.  Keeping nurse eyes diverted and only allowing to peer into what  nursing eyes can peer into in any given, alloted moment.  Those eyes, with pupils dilated — startled by the abrupt sneeze coming from a person seated out of sight– startled and now pained at the spasms and jerks that are his muscles moving.  Pained by the limits of jagged and contracted joints.  By the limits of his body.

At two years of age, as fluid and ambling as any two year old should be, his mother left him unattended and unrestrained in a hot car with the windows down.  A newer model at the time, this car had automatic windows controlled by buttons.  And when he, an ambling two year old, peeked his sweaty curious head out the window to see where she had gone, his little sandaled-foot stepped on one of those window buttons.  The window raised and met his tender throat, closing and trapping him there for as long as took to render a white hot stellate stretching space within his brain.  Asphyxiated, by the closed window, his brain was of deprived oxygen, his body and muscles then eventually deprived of the normal innervation from his brain.

Those eyes, framed with gorgeous lashes and surrounded by a moon of adolescent-tween-heart-throb-face.  Flashy blue dye painted on the tips of spikes in his hair.  Neon socks and clean black running shoes placed on withered, small feet.  Dressed with care–with thought in today’s youthful trend, without any shred of his own consent.  Those eyes.  I was in the presence of someone special, more special than any one without those eyes could be.  Seeing what we do not.  Forced into a still awareness.  A finer point etched into his destiny.



One thought on “Fissured Colors and Time

  1. Pingback: “Fissured Colors and Time”: A New ‘Trenchant Impression’ | Sonic Drops

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