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Eyes of Ebony
By Bubakin
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Her eyes were black. That fact was
inescapable. Framed by pale and creased skin, those depths were beacons of
darkness in the light. They shouted, do not go elsewhere, don't you see the
lights? Come to us, we are the only places with no rocks. Her brilliant white
hair was straight was straight, and she wore it long and natural. It was a pure
white, unstreaked with gray, but only because she dyed it. She was past her age
of thickness and now a gaunt, hollow appearance had taken hold. Her wrists were
thin and her cheeks were drawn inward. Her lips were at all times at least
slightly parted. She wore clothing that draped over her, and wore only white.
And she spoke ever so softly. She spoke with the volume of a whisper, but
her voice held none of the harshness or forcedness of a whisper. She simply had
not the will to speak louder.
She was regal. She was regal of appearance, regal of motion, regal of
voice. One looked at her and said to oneself, "That is a woman who has lived.
That is a woman who truly 'is.'" One looks in those eyes of ebony and thinks,
"What depths those eyes must contain." Then one spoke to her, for surely she
must know the secrets of life and its meaning? And she spoke of the time when
Lucy Menjaygall drank tea with her and she talked about what she had been eating
when Martha Lou called her up to tell her she was going to marry Bobby back in
the spring of '49. Then one's eyes glaze over, and one finds oneself gravely
disappointed. Senile woman, one thinks, those black eyes were but a void.
Then one ponders for a time, and one thinks, perhaps she did relate
exactly what one needs to know about life. One thinks about this for a little
longer, and comes up with one sure thought: God, I hope not. Dear God, I hope
not.
