My mother’s eyes could freeze water with a glance.
And she knew it.

Just a sharp look from those gray eyes and we’d stop whatever we were doing,
if we saw them in time.
She’d have to yell sometimes to get our attention,
but once we looked at her
it was like looking at Medusa
and we’d be afraid we’d turn into stone.

I know this must have intimidated my father, too.
Not right away of course.

Their wedding photo:
Mom in her rosy suit, a little black hat on her head with one of those tiny veils,
just some black beaded threads,
like tiny coiled snakes, not lace,
curling down over the brim of her hat above her eyes.

Her eyes were soft then,
full of dreamy hope, loving, naïve, young.

Dad in his Army uniform,
glowing and smug like the cat who’d caught the canary.
This was days before he shipped out.

Mom’s eyes could laugh
or give me a look like she knew the whole story.
She didn’t need to roll her eyes, the look said it all.
She could read my expression, asking “what’s wrong?” before I’d said a word.

But when she told my dad that she was leaving him,
he flew into a rage
he put his hands around her neck

She didn’t flinch.
She just glared at him.

And he collapsed in sobs by her feet.

“And that was so much worse,” she said.
“That’s when I almost gave in.”

But she didn’t.
Her eyes saw all of us through the next 20 years
until all of us were grown.

Once when she was mad at me,
I must have been 4 at the time,
I told her:
“I love your eyes, mommy.
When I was up in heaven waiting to be born,
I asked God to give me a mother with eyes like yours,
and He did.  Thank-you, God.”

She laughed every time she told me that.