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Her eyes looked past trees that had made themselves into statues. It was as though from her seat on the porch they were but scenery, the decorum set before a majestic backdrop that extended far beyond what my eyes could see, but hers could.

Her eyes glistened. I saw the sky reflected there in the deep pools of hazel light. She saw much more than me, after turning twice to follow her stare, of this I was certain.

Her neatly pressed cotton dress flowed across her legs as she sat in fall’s fluid light. The air was crisp that day. The plaid flannel jacket lay across her shoulders, open between her small breasts.

Her hands were folded at her waist, extending from wrists that tucked back against her forearms. Fingers knotted, moved as if expressing her thoughts.

Her thoughts spoke from those hazel pools of light. Anything more would have been superfluous. Words didn’t flow from her mouth, the sounds like puffs of wind, a musical instrument finding its pitch.

I wondered if she thought it odd to be otherwise, and found my chatter unnecessary, but was too polite to say as much.

My Aunt Lula experienced life from her chair. I think of her now as I sit so long at my desk. Hours pass and Life is stirring within me. Moment by moment, words and thoughts and memories come, bringing to life love, like Lula’s.

Her eyes saw things my own could not, like my mother’s eyes staring beyond the ceiling, filled with childlike wonder as she lay dying. They, too, glistened.

I wonder as I stare into the memory of my Aunt Lula’s eyes if that is what faith is, the ability to see life through eyes of childlike wonder, turning the ordinary into extraordinary.

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