Windows to the soul
Windows to the Soul
I’ve been told that the eyes are windows to the soul. If you looked into my great-grandmother’s eyes, you would see the slow evolution of time. You would see nearly a century of life and knowledge hidden behind her milky violet irises. You would see a battle, visible on the inside and out, as you watch the dementia slowly creep over as each second passes. My tutu Violet is one of the oldest people I know; she is the ultimate test of time. Over the years, she has done it all, from being a prison nurse, to surviving the death of her husband when she was 50, to living through the Second World War. My memories of her are clear, and many, for she is a loving person, but one stands out among the rest. This was before she began to slowly descend towards memory loss and give in to old age; before time took its toll on her. We knew that we had to tell her everything that was needed to tell and she had to share all she knew with us before she began to forget. This particular memory took place at my grandmother Nannette’s house, (my tutu’s first daughter). It was my tutu’s 90th birthday party and all of our family was there. We all stood around the wooden koa table at my grandmother’s house, our feet bare against the floor, each of our hands linked together. I knew the feeling of everyone’s hands there, from the countless prayer circles, in which we all bowed our heads, waiting for our tutu to bless us and the food so that we could eat. The smell of flower lei hung in the air, fragrant and delicate, intertwining with the smell of cooked meat and my tutu’s plum-and-apricot cake. We then decided to do something different. For my tutu’s ninth decade of life, to honor her, we would all go around the circle, sharing something that was special to us about her. My tutu stood there, leaning on her cane, tears in her milky violet eyes, as she shook slightly on it’s wooden handle, hand resting lightly on the carved owl with the winking yellow gem eyes
I’ve been told that the eyes are windows to the soul. If you looked into my great-grandmother’s eyes, you would see the slow evolution of time. You would see nearly a century of life and knowledge hidden behind her milky violet irises. You would see a battle, visible on the inside and out, as you watch the dementia slowly creep over as each second passes. My tutu Violet is one of the oldest people I know; she is the ultimate test of time. Over the years, she has done it all, from being a prison nurse, to surviving the death of her husband when she was 50, to living through the Second World War. My memories of her are clear, and many, for she is a loving person, but one stands out among the rest. This was before she began to slowly descend towards memory loss and give in to old age; before time took its toll on her. We knew that we had to tell her everything that was needed to tell and she had to share all she knew with us before she began to forget. This particular memory took place at my grandmother Nannette’s house, (my tutu’s first daughter). It was my tutu’s 90th birthday party and all of our family was there. We all stood around the wooden koa table at my grandmother’s house, our feet bare against the floor, each of our hands linked together. I knew the feeling of everyone’s hands there, from the countless prayer circles, in which we all bowed our heads, waiting for our tutu to bless us and the food so that we could eat. The smell of flower lei hung in the air, fragrant and delicate, intertwining with the smell of cooked meat and my tutu’s plum-and-apricot cake. We then decided to do something different. For my tutu’s ninth decade of life, to honor her, we would all go around the circle, sharing something that was special to us about her. My tutu stood there, leaning on her cane, tears in her milky violet eyes, as she shook slightly on it’s wooden handle, hand resting lightly on the carved owl with the winking yellow gem eyes