When you were born
and I looked into your eyes,
I saw my eyes.

People said
they were the only thing
about you that seemed to come
from me, all the other fine features
a gift of God passed down
from your father.

But your eyes,
dark, honest, flecked
with hope golden and innocence
of green, shone bright,
a touch of heaven’s
light come down.

Your eyes saw more
than most, took in so much
of our shadow world, but you
filtered dim images through
a heart that belongs
to heaven, too.

Oh, you have
such vision, child of mine.
You see possibility. You believe.
I’ve never seen you squint or allow
the growing darkness to
overcome your spirit.

But last week
life forced us both
to focus on a problem
we hadn’t even noticed.
You peered into ocular device
and could not read line 7…

Or line 6, 5, 4, and 3.
Not even 2. Just a
routine eye check, but
everything blurred, became
a jumbled alphabet soup,
thick, bleak, murky.

I said it couldn’t be so;
you’d passed screening this spring
with 20/20. The pediatrician checked
the records, indulged me when I
suggested she repeat the test.
Surely it was flawed.

We made sure
you understood. But,
of course, you did. I saw
as much when I looked into
your eyes. I paid attention
to her scribbling.

I caught a glimmer
of grave concern in her eyes.
“Very unusual for a child’s vision
to deteriorate so quickly.” She
promised a referral, rattled off
a list of “related conditions”

that could cause
slip-sliding eyesight, emphasized
again potential severity. Like any
mother I only wanted
to hold you, stare
into your eyes. 

Grayer that day,
golden specks lost in your
concern, which I tried to assuage
without holding back plain truth.
Pain obscured my vision
as I looked at you.

When you were born
and I looked into your eyes,
I saw my eyes. Now, I gaze and
see eternity. I pray soon to
glimpse a miracle reflected
in your eyes.