Blue Eyes, Blue Gems

I didn’t used to like blue eyes, not on anyone. Babies, children, boys, girls, adults. I found them slightly creepy, like the person wearing them was piercing through me with her gaze. The light blue ones especially made me feel that way.
Now, I like green eyes very much. It just so happens that I have brown eyes. I always think brown eyes are plain. Boring, just average. Though they can be warm and suffused with empathy. Somehow, the green eyed gene skipped me and made itself comfortable on a brother and sister of mine instead. A small comfort is the thought that my kids might inherit the prestigious color.

Don't get me wrong. I have many friends who have blue eyes; a brother, even a colleague. And I know there is a certain beauty to them- the stereotypical blue eyes, blonde hair look does have some kind of basis after all. But despite the many factors involved, blue eyes never sat well with me, infusing me rather with a feeling of coldness and insensitivity.

So when I first met her, I took a step back. Not only did she have blue eyes, they were a clear, icy blue, like the color of snow reflecting off a bright blue sky. The sort of blue in which the pupil stares out blacker than black, a perfectly round circle. The kind of blue devoid of all emotion.
I looked at her and she looked at me. Inwardly, I sighed. Out of all the others in the room, I had to be assigned the women with the coldest and most sordid of gazes. Her expression matched her eyes- aloof and frosty, the corners of her mouth turned down in an unmistakable frown. Every nuance of her features screamed out at me, ‘Go away! You aren’t wanted!’
But I swallowed hard and crinkled my own kind eyes into the brightest smile I could muster. I willed the feeling and passion that was me to overflow through my eyes and connect to hers.
I read her nametag. “Hello. You must be Betsy!”
A slight nod. Her stare pierced me like so many sharp knives and it took all my strength to keep my own fixed on hers. Without batting an eyelash, I sat down on the easy chair beside her, moving the plant out of the way, the better to see her face.
Now I noticed the wrinkles and fine lines surrounding her mouth, all the way up to her forehead. Her skin fell into folds in many places as if hiding secrets beneath them. Secrets that only she knew. Soft, grey wisps of hair touched her temples, carefully curled and set. Fine features, I thought, running a hand against my own soft skin. She must have been a pretty lady once upon a time.
But her eyes refused to let go of me. And as we sat in awkward silence, I shifted my gaze finally and lowered it- to her arm, resting against her knitting.
And there it was. A row of numbers. Blue numbers, etched into her skin. Small, crowded- but so painfully obvious, they could’ve been stamped all over her face. I switched off my mechanical smile and observed that exposed arm with unabashed shock, my thoughts tumbling around in my head.
She remained poised and calm during my startled discovery. It was only when I finally looked up that I saw she was still watching me. Waiting to meet my gaze. And when my eyes finally met hers again, she smiled. Softly, sadly, painfully. Understandingly.
I smiled back and saw two circles of anguish. Two worlds of horror, two pools of history. A pair of blue oceans brimming with echoes of an unknown. Blue gems shining with strength and conviction. Blue eyes that had witnessed, survived and conquered.
The iciness melted in those few minutes.
I thought I didn’t like blue eyes. Maybe I do.