While I was pregnant they said, “I hope he gets your eyes.”

Wildflower honey with traces of green reflecting brightly. Lightness contrasted against dark skin. Mine.

His. Rich, deep and never ending. Like laying on the forest floor looking up at the trunks of trees that reach past the vast and endless night sky.

My son inherited my appetite for books.

Just moments after his eyes flutter open he proclaims, “I want to read.”

Our eyes scan page after page, following the symbols that make magic come alive.

“Next one. Next one, please.”

Book after book. Story after story. His eyes light up. We spend our days devouring words and delighting in each other’s enjoyment.

Days darken to nights. Cradled in my arms he drowsily asks, “another book?” between heavy lids he looks up, full of love.

It’s there, there I see my eyes in his.

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