what it meant

she sketched everything. forests, skies, her cat, people on the subway. she drew her secrets and ambitions and fears—she traced away her anxieties and scribbled her dreams to life. flowers. stars. animals. but mostly she painted eyes. all different colours, shapes, feelings. eyes of curious children and understanding adults—wrinkles or without; heavy and blue with tears, or sparkling with laughter and green. she did it so that whenever people looked at what she had created, they would see the stories in those eyes. they would see the loss of a child in the hollow and empty irises, or the memory of a holiday in the mischievous glint from a hazel eye. they would remember. and it would mean something.

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