9 Eyes Autumn McDonnel Great-Grandpa Gene loved your eyes, Great-Grandma Millie always told me, growing up. She said this every time I visited her. The biggest, darkest brown he had ever seen, She spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then my sister would make dirt pies, In the backyard several feet away from me. And she’d scoop up a handful of Brown dirt and wriggly worms. The dirt looks like your eyes, She spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I had my first boyfriend Who said he fell in love with me The moment he saw my eyes. They’re the most beautiful brown I’ve ever seen, He spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I looked in the mirror On a Sunday morning getting ready for church with my dad. The sunlight hit my irises while he watched, And my eyes went from brackish brown to glittering gold, Like homemade honey in a pot. You don’t get those brown jewels from me, He spoke. But this didn’t mean anything to me. And then I turned 20 And I noticed everything about me changed overnight, Except for my eyes. My dirty brown eyes, That somehow retained their beauty, And were the first thing that people noticed. My eyes were assigned their beauty By people that loved me most, I spoke. This meant everything to me.
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