I have my mother’s eyes.
They’re large, round, clear blue eyes. “Mirrors to the soul” said one of her friends, a large barrel-chested man with a beefy face and a T-shirt that couldn’t quite cover his bulbous belly.
“That’s why I chose her,” said the man. “It was the eyes.” Then mother winked at me and they went into her room, shutting the door behind them.
I didn’t know my daddy. Mother only ever mentioned him once. I’d just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist, and mother stood in the hallway leaning against one wall, the ice cubes of her drink clinking softly in her glass. She snatched the towel from me and a sharp laugh escaped her mouth. “Cyril, honey,” she said, ” it’s a good thing you got my baby blues, cause you got your daddy’s unit.”
When I was young mother would take me to gramps’ place. We’d take the Greyhound out to the country, she’d drop me off and hurry back to the bus station.
“I’ve got to run, Cyril,” she’d say, “got a bus to catch. I’ll be back shortly.”
Except she wouldn’t. Weeks would go by before she came back and ushered me out the door, back to our cramped, dusty apartment.
That was okay, though. I liked gramps, liked staying at his place.
Gramps collected things, kept them in jars on shelves in his little country kitchen. I studied those jars for hours, stared at their curious contents as the morning sun filtered through paper-thin blinds and lit the jars with a warm light. He had jars of buttons, pennies, marbles, eggs, beets and more, all neatly lined along the homemade shelves. He even kept his teeth in a jar beside his bed, the pink gums and white teeth seemingly alive in some strange embryonic fluid.
One day, while poking around in gramp’s small, moldy closet, I came upon a thick leather photo album. I opened its pages and stared at the pictures. The same young girl appeared in every shot. She was a small, naked, pale thing, her face slack and dull. When I looked closer at the images I noticed the little girl also had mother’s eyes.
There was a little green valley with a small creek behind our apartment building. I spent a lot of time there. When your name was Cyril you didn’t have many friends. I’d follow the bends and turns in the creek for hours. One day I happened upon an injured bird along the creek bed. One wing was bent and folded, as if it wasn’t a real bird but some insane origami creation. I picked up the crippled creature and took it home. I didn’t know what to do with it so I put it in a jar. I still have it, too, only now it’s just a tiny pile of bone and ash.
I have other jars. They’re not like gramps’ jars, they only have one or two things in them. One of the jars has a tooth in it from the time Bobby Miller hit me for walking past his house.
Another jar has a slip of faded paper with the word CYRIL scrawled on it in red ink.
Mother found some of my jars one day. “What kind of freak are you?” she sneered. I took to hiding the jars after that but mother paid no further heed to my room.
I never had much luck with girls. “You some sort of dude lover?” mother would ask. Years later I would have some ribs removed so that I could fellate myself. I still have the ribs. They’re in a jar, somewhere.
I used to watch mother sitting in front of a mirror, applying her makeup. She’d pay particular attention to her eyes. “Hmmm, nice, eh Cyril?” she’d say. It would be the only time she’d smile.
Nowadays, when I’m done with the mascara, the eyeliner and the pencils, when I’ve got them just right, I’ll just stare into the mirror, stare deep into those blue eyes and mother will be looking back at me with her round, moist orbs.
It’s true, though, what she said about her eyes. Blue-suited business men and leather attired boys all agree. “Your eyes, they’re beautiful,” they whisper softly in my ear and I’m glad I spent the extra time at the mirror.
After all. . . I have my mother’s eyes.
I keep them in a jar.
