His eyes
looking up at me, age four,
huge, round, dark blue,
innocent. When I told him
he would have a baby sister
and we would teach her
how to walk and talk,
"and how to be happy" he said,
his kindness making me
catch my breath in awe
at the largeness
of his soul.
His eyes, always laughing,
as a child, so joyous,
dancing with his baby sister,
hugging her close; later,
as a teen, so protective,
holding her hand on the street
as bullies taunted him.
"Dont worry. Just keep walking,"
he said. Keeping her safe.
His eyes, at seventeen,
in the psych ward
as his world collapsed:
still, the same blue eyes,
still, the same wry smile.
His eyes, through his illness,
haunted, tortured,
as his dreams all dimmed,
his life growing lonely
as the walls closed in.
His eyes, that Monday morning,
through the tablet screen:
trapped and helpless
on his hospital bed
as life throws another hurdle
in his path, that has already
been so hard.
If I could switch places
with him, I would,
but I can only look into
those same blue eyes
with all my mother's heart -
those eyes still the colour
of all my morning skies.
