Under Eye Suitcases

I have always joked about the lurking hatred I harbour for my pouchy under eyes. I thought it was funny to call them heavy suitcases instead of the charming  pocketbooks other girls seemed to have. I thought my self loathing was acceptable or at least comical, but on a December morning everything suddenly changed. 

The moment I recall makes me feel that peculiar feeling of vibrancy only achieved when the light is pouring in from a window and suddenly when the beam shifts it illuminates every particle of dust in the air, or the way that dusk seems to make edges sharper with the warm sepia glow of the weaning sun. 

I      opened     my      door

There was your generous face with its lofty cheekbones and tired eyes. I just looked at you for a second before stepping out of my door frame to greet you. My eyes were not stuck directly in the gaze of your eyes– you know I can't stand eye contact, but right beneath your gaze, on your under eyes. I couldn't help but see how beautiful they were. 

We walked next to each other with your bike down the footpath into my back garden.

 “You look sleepy”

WHY DID I SAY THAT?

I really hope you understood what I meant,  but how could you have.

Suddenly all of this energy I had wasted trying to cure my under-eyes with creams and ill will had crumbled away because yours were beautiful. They looked like a chubby renaissance baby. They looked like the tired men from the fields in Dorothea Lange Gelatin Prints. They looked like you had biked to my house in the cold morning grey to say goodbye before I had to leave. Your suitcases looked like love. 

I would never say that you were looking at me with love, it would not have done any good. But what I was sure about was that you did and would always radiate love.  I could see it under your eyes. I could see it in the way you stopped to greet dogs as they passed as if they were other gentlemen. I could see it when you spoke about your dreams and ideas for multilevel housing in suburban districts. Maybe you thought I was being cold when I said you looked sleepy, but I like to hold out hope that you knew what I meant. 

When the love filled suitcases that were pulling on your pale Irish skin turned away from me and departed my back garden I turned around to face my suitcases filled with heavy books and reality and was filled with a tiredness I have not seemed to shake, one less glamorous than love– loss. I have not picked up the jar of eye cream since. It makes me think of you to see the suitcases pulling the exhaustion from radiating love I hold.