inheritance of the luck of the green eyes

I can say it was the luck of the green eyes. The luck of the mistake of green eyes. For they are a mistake. Missing on the punnet square of brown and blue. My father's eyes a deep blue like his mother's. Her Irish eyes became his. My mother's eyes more green and blue changing like the seasons and the ocean. I inherited my mother's eyes too. Her Irish eyes. And for with the luck of the green eyes I have skipped and jumped and jumped and crawled and ran and walked and fell throughout my life. And with these eyes I see. I see the scene around me. I see the inner workings of someone. What they could be. I see the unspoken words. I see the injustice and ask. Why? I see the look in the eyes of another. Letting me know they are there. Right there. Are if they have left and moved to another spot.

These eyes have taken in the secrets from friends and strangers alike. These eyes are my number one complement. I get. I have received. My entire life. From friends. From strangers. From strangers of friends. From family. Even from students. I began to say thanks my mother let me borrow them-they are her eyes.

But really they are mine. I inherited them ago upon my father and mother making me. Opened outside the womb for the first time. Outside I didn't want to leave the safety of her stomach. Late I was. Opened eyes to the world. And given my constant reminder of these eyes. The beauty of them. The drawing in. To speak of them. And look of them. And the reminder of these eyes being from my mother. I can't help but wonder what these eyes mean. What do these irish green changing with my shirt and with the conditions of my eyes glowing even more when I cry? What do they mean? Mean to have something that others adore. Mean to have something unique. Mean to have something that is a beautiful mistake. And as I blink again. And again.

I can't help but wonder about the luck of the green eyes. The beauty of a mistake a mix of brown and blue into me. My eyes. And in looking and seeing I know I see it differently. And for that my own uniqueness of these eyes similar to my mothers. But my own. They are my own. But a reminder. Reminding me. She is always with me. Still.

For the drawing in of these eyes might be the same. The same. But who looks at these eyes. And speak words of truth differently. These eyes are my own. My own gift. My own luck. My own Irish. My own way to connect for it is more than the eyes themselves the colors ever changing. Its about the way I see. That makes this journey and those who speak to me all the more interesting. So my struck of green luck I view the world through them and in it I see it all, the beauty and pain and laughter and a world I dreamt up myself, a world I try and create. And somehow through it all I see the glowing future. As I blink again and the lines around my eyes soften. Thank you, I say.