By Tori Sturdivant-Miller
I had never seen Mother’s eyes before. They were always hidden beneath darkened shades. From hushed tones and spilled words, I was able to determine that her vision was taken from her over the years, and that an eclipse had stolen what was left of it.
When I was little, I had a very curious mind. I remember watching her blindly feel through my hair as I struggled to stay still. I would ask if she felt sad that she couldn’t see; that she would never be able to grasp our matching smiles, or the misbehaving curls that wrestled each other to get away from our scalps.
She would not respond immediately. Instead, she would always continue to replicate the sweet strings of her favorite song with a warmth that melted my ears, as she grasped for my chin. I laid my cheek against her familiar palm as she finished the highlight of her song.
“Just because I lost my sight to beauty does not mean I can not see yours,” she would finally answer, those gentle words enveloping my heart with the ease of a mourning dove letting rehearsed tones escape its syrinx.
Contributor Bio
Tori Sturdivant-Miller is a first year Literature major with a specialization in Creative Writing. Tori has ambitions of being an author, but for now must conquer writer’s block and math class.