Still Eyes, Still Moving

I like the way he looked out of the top of his eyes. His black eyebrows rested low over them. His dark lids made them look tired, but kind. They were big and clever-looking, speaking more for him than any of his other handsome features. Not even that perfect black curl that fell over his tan forehead or that famous gentle grin could compare to the power of his eyes. Somehow I think they can still see. I always wondered what they would look like in color. The yellowed paper of the photograph does nothing but make his eyes look darker and farther away. I wonder what his eyes would look like in motion.

I wonder what his eyes looked like when they were wide and excited as he plummeted towards the swimming hole with a splash. Or with their lids resting contentedly over them, as he floated on his back. I wonder how they looked when they popped open, as his mother shouted for him from the bank, telling him, his sister, and his cousins that they were going to take a picture. If only I could have seen them right before they posed. Before his eyes were forever immobilized by the camera’s click.

I wonder what they looked like as he sat at his classroom desk. I want to think they wandered around the room, everywhere except where they should have been. I wonder how they looked with his eyebrows scrunched over them carefully watching the tip of his pencil as he drew a horse in his arithmetic book. I imagine they looked guilty when the teacher called for his attention and relieved when he realized it was his turn for a class photo. If I could, I would speak to time itself and beg it to take me back. Take me back to the room with the white backdrop and stool. I want to see the eyes that he gave me, big, brown, and waiting for the terrible click.

I wonder what his eyes looked like when they saw my great-grandmother for the first time. I imagine they followed her as she rushed around the small diner where she worked as a waitress. I wonder if his eyes ever caught hers, sneaking a glance. When their eyes met, did they sparkle at the thought of what could be? Or did they grow weary over what was? Maybe they looked fearful, as he sat in the diner and sipped soda from a glass bottle. Perhaps he feared his health would drive her away. I wish I could have stopped his friend from rushing into the restaurant and showing off his new fancy camera. I wish I could have stopped him from asking my great-grandfather to turn around and smile. I wish he wouldn’t have forever frozen that moment for me to wish and wonder over — all this frustration caused by a simple click.

I wonder how his eyes looked when they were squinted, the bright orange sun resting on the pasture, making it hard to see where he was riding. Or what they looked like when they glanced over at my grandmother riding on a horse beside him. Could they see the certainty behind her long eyelashes, or did they display their own confidence that he had found a strong woman? A woman who had suffered through enough that a weak heart wouldn’t drive her away. I wish she wouldn’t have brought the camera. If only she wouldn’t have asked him to get off his white horse and smile. I wish that ride never ended. What my grandmother didn’t realize is that a moment’s lifespan is shortened if it is captured. In an instant, the warm pink sunset over the green pasture was stripped of its life and color with a click.

I wonder what his eyes looked like when my grandmother tried to get him to dance. I wonder if they zipped around their small house, making sure no one was watching. Perhaps they scanned over the rickety turntable, the two curly-headed kids, and the opened curtains. I am sure his eyes struggled to follow my grandmother’s quick feet, studying them, and trying hard to mimic. I wonder how they looked when his wife and kids laughed at his feeble attempts. Did his eyes grow frustrated, with eyebrows tight around the narrow bridge of his nose, or did they soften as they looked at the ones he loved most? I imagine they relaxed when my great-grandmother suggested they take a picture. I wish I could tell them to keep dancing, to let the night live on. I wish he wouldn’t have picked up my little grandfather and put his arm around my young aunt. I wish my great-grandmother wouldn’t have set the timer and rushed over to his side. As they focused on the lens did they know? Did they know his enlarged heart would fail and that this photograph would be his last? I wonder what his eyes would have looked like with wrinkles around them.

As I looked at the few pictures I have of my great-grandfather, I can’t help but long for him. I will never know how he would see me. All I have are black-and-white moments flattened on a thin sheet of paper. No. If I put the pictures down and look around me, I can see that I am wrong. His eyes never stopped moving. In fact, I see my great-grandfather’s eyes every day. I see his same brown eyes looking at me in my sweet papa. His eyes continued to move through my mother, to my sister, and now through me. As I look in the mirror, I see just what my great grandpa Bill would, a girl who shares his eyes.