I haven’t really thought about the light blue of my mother’s eyes since I last saw them 18 years ago. Closer to my memory is the sound of her laugh, the harmony of our voices singing in alto side by side in our pew at Mass. I often feel like I hear her now when I sing in church, as if she is still right beside me. I think about the way my childhood home felt when I would come home from college for a weekend visit; greeted by her open arms, the hugs, the chats over tea, the way she made everything comfy just by her presence. I remember her sense of humor and how she would try to get me to take myself a little less seriously, especially when I was in college (I had a hard time with that one, still sometimes do). I have pondered the irresistible twinkle in her eye when she had an especially fun idea she wanted my brothers and I to go along with.
One of my sons commented the other day on how my eyes are a light and bright blue in comparison to the blue of 5 of my sons who all have a variety of hues of blue, while the other two boys have shades of hazel like my husband.
I think that comment planted a seed for this morning. Wet hair drying, no make up on but contacts lenses in, I looked in the mirror and… saw her.
Maybe it was the way the light shone in the window, but I could see in my eyes, her beautiful light blue eyes.
So small I know friends, why am I even writing about this?
Remembering the exact shade of blue of my mothers eyes made my heart shake and loosen and want to love more and love better.
It was like finding an unexpected letter from someone you miss and love in your mailbox, opening it, drinking in the love while you hurriedly read it at your doorstep, and then standing there holding it over your heart as you smile.
With love, from the doorstep of Vermont,