C.P. Barnes '07 | November 24, 2014
My mother’s eyes are big and brown and expressive. And when she smiles (which she does a lot) they form twinkling little half-moons that rise over the high ridges of her cheekbones, the tiny peak of her nose. When she smiles (which she does a lot) the delicate skin around each orbit crinkles kindly as her brows arch in affection, her head tilting slightly on its axis. Her eyes are subtle yet celestial. Dark but full of light.
What we call love in this world first takes visible form in our mother’s eyes, which, though we cannot remember, we know were weary and honest and full in our first moments. In our first moments, doctors say, an infant’s eyes can study its mother’s face and, within a few days, are capable of recognizing it. But even before then, a newborn knows the taste of its mother’s salt and blood, knows the smell of its mother’s skin when it takes to her breast, knows the sound of its mother’s voice, which, when heard in the womb, is shown to quicken the infantile heart.