Mother closes her eyes, eyes that resemble no one else’s, sunken and deep like Westerners’ yet almond-shaped like ours. I always wish for her eyes, but Mother says no. Eyes like hers can’t help but carry sadness; even as a child her parents were alarmed by the weight in her eyes. I want to hear more, but nothing, not even my pouts, can make Mother open her eyes and tell more. April 10
