Happy, a joyful eye. Sparkling.
There was one eye.
Dark, a dramatic, dark, terrorizing storm of doom.
Both eyes belonged to the same skull.
Attached to the same visual cortex sunk in the same brain.
The happy eye of joy and wonder and brilliance and glisten of morning dew as ascribed to children.
The other, plainly visible, the word was obvious; Hopelessness.
The mother of the eyes kept only photos of the 'good' eye. Excising from all collections any picture that included the other. Even if it's terrible loneliness was undetectable in-photo.
When they were out together, the eyes and mother, the child would have to wear an eye patch over the 'bad' eye - these were the days before when children weren't seen wearing sunglasses except the afflicted - as she was especially sensitive to the opinions, and subjected herself to the cruelties and critical voyeurism, of the general public.
Also, the mother of the diametrically opposing dissonance was warmed by the beholding of the 'good' eye.
It brought her such joy.
The 'other' being as frightening as a dentist's depiction of a rotten-black tooth.
Sometimes she would stare into it (the cherished one eye of the boy) for long minutes and the boy would sit there as something that was aware it was being examined would sit. And he looked straight ahead unblinking as she preferred, until his good eye dried and was painted, wet-semi-gloss, ten percent Gesso. Then she would feed his good eye a single Rolo.
After he finished chewing his Rolo and it's buttery chocolate ran down his throat and it's caramel clung no more she would tell him how tragic that he with his one sorrowful bad eye truly was but that he should make the best of it and by all means keep the patch on the god-awful thing if he ever expected to advance in life and meet a pretty girl.
A tear chased the last sweetness from his lips as the boy sat across from her in disparity of wanting to hug her breasts or throw her from her chair in the cluttered corner of the examination.
Because the full reveal of the 'other' eye in juxtaposition to the one 'good' eye on the same tender peachy face of the boy would, she continued, tend to make people feel a bit "put off".
Sometimes, if the grocery store checkout lines were extremely long, as they always were Sunday afternoons, she'd place the patch over the good eye.
The bad eye, horribly unobstructed, terribly tortured (sometimes she used the word, 'haunting') sad eye, wide open - the green-blue hauntingly hazel iris choking the helpless deep black pupil into a corner, framed in a soft almond-shaped view finder - agape for everyone to see. For the people ahead of them to take notice, waiting for discovery like a public slow motion stabbing death.
The people, scanning the covers of periodicals that they'd never buy or admit to any interest in, squinting their eyes to read more headlines, more photo captions, see more expertly produced images of 'Stars' without makeup. Coveting the covers much more secretly than their children were coveting candy much lower on the carnival-taunts festooned checkout lane racks before the term 'impulse items' had been coined.
Picking at the lint on the sleeves of their woolen dress goods, their full turtle-neck sleeves.
Some pre-filling out checks still attached to checkbooks because it's in the interest of prevention of the entire store's population's jawed aghast. A check readied and waiting only on the inform of numerical amounts with long-hand forward-slant cursive reaffirmation. Pensive examination for i's dotted, t's...
And then of course in all their busy-waiting-work and distraction undoubtedly a normal set of undisfigured, bored, hurried curiously busy eyes would glance past and then dart back and 'zoom' in on the child with the patch covering the one (unkown to them) good eye the patch suggesting that the other eye was still further grotesque and unsightly as to be 'out of order'.
A sorry gasp escapes from old cracking lips drawing the attention of others who were so busy not really minding their own business in the sordid "Dick&Liz" on again/off roller-coaster of alcoholism, sex, drugs, betrayal and sworn eternal love and also available in 1.7oz perfumes.
Now these insatiable eyes are deposited upon the boy, looking at the eye that is looking steadfast askew into some immeasurable distance only the boy with the lazy, blood shot eye can see.
The heartbreakingly quivering uni-sad eye and it's owner are rushed swiftly to the front of the line and expedited with not one but two frail-white bag boys as escorts and bouncers to prevent further damage to these good Calvinist heroes in line, blessed with two good-clear eyes.
Aglow they are in their minds reflection and heartened by 'its' misfortune, and their unequal luxury as chosen sheep.
All apart of HIS plan.
On a Sunday afternoon.
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