Tired Eyes

I looked at her. Her eyes were already tired, just like all that came before her.

Her body, still. You would think a baby would cry more often, fuss more often, make themselves known more often. After all, they were brand new. No achy bones, no heavy thoughts, no concept of the sacrifice of living. But she was born tired, like all that came before her.

She would eat…but only for survival, without that primal hunger seen in the innocent. From time to time, she would also open her eyes and look around. I wouldn’t say she was amazed…or interested. But she was aware of her lineage, she could see it even if it was not in front of her.

She knew the rules already, maybe she would survive after all. And I don’t mean just being alive but actually living.

I learned the rules from an early age as well, and so did my mother, and her mother and her mother’s mother and so on. It didn’t skip a single generation. It was heavy, suffocating.

Being born without being able to breath, must feel heavy to such a tiny body. But even now, it still felt heavy for me and just as suffocating as when I was as new as her.

She opened her eyes, not a cry or whimper. The whole house was as quiet as her, the air thick, the lights off and the fear high. She stared at me, as she always does. I knew she knew, just like I knew, and my mother knew and my mother’s mother knew. It didn’t skip a single generation.

We looked at each other. Her from her crib, me from the chair in the corner. We were far enough and close enough.

From where I sat, I could feel the cold seeping through the window. It was cold outside; it had snowed earlier in the day. A random snow at that. But it was hot in here. I could feel the heat rising from the pit of my stomach all the way to my cheeks.

We were still staring at each other, both wondering what our next move would be. Would she be her mother’s daughter, her grandmother’s granddaughter and her great grandmother’s great granddaughter?

I was all of them. I belonged to all those tired eye women and so did she.

I can’t imagine it was always that bad but it sure felt like it. It escalated with each generation as well. One would think it had been done on purpose. So, we didn’t turn tired eye anymore, we were just born like that.

She was still looking at me…staring actually…and I kept on looking back.

We were daring each other to act. But who would do it first? The tired eyed new born with the daring stare? Or the fully grown woman with the weak one?

I think my brain had momentarily disconnected from my body. Maybe I was paralyzed. I read of a man that sat in the toilet for thirty minutes and become paralyzed. All because he sat on the wrong bone, for the right amount of time. Maybe that was me as well, maybe that was the essence of my life. Wrong circumstance at the right time.

My brain told my legs to move, but they didn’t. So, I kept on staring at the new born while she stared at me.

Eyes dark, head bald, body tiny. She did not stand a chance but she still dared to look me in the eye. Urging me to leave it all behind and do it for my mother, and her mother and her mother’s mother.

The heat rose again. My feet were sweaty, my cheeks on fire and my stomach trembling.

It was almost three in the morning and I had a small window left. Just three more hours before we all went back to our roles. Her the baby, me the dutiful and obedient mother.

How far would my feet take me in three hours?

The baby frowned. If she cried, it was all over. If she didn’t…I didn’t know if I wanted to take that chance…or opportunity.

Who would accept a mother with a tired eyed baby?

We kept on looking at each other. At some point I thought she would get up and shake me. A tiny, fragile bomb. That’s who I wanted her to be. That’s who I wanted to be. But the words never left my throat, the tears were cried in silence, the bruises were always hidden under clothes.

I told my brain to move my legs once more but nothing happened. I was dripping in sweat at this point. I could feel it pooling on my back.

A snore broke the silence. Distant but close enough to harm. I listened and so did she. Both shocked by the sudden lack of silence.

One snore, two snores, three snores…and so on. We both relaxed, her tiny shoulders going down. Knowing the consequences from memories of lives she had not experienced.

Another snore, this one not as loud, but very much present.

Would I be sacrificing this baby to a life of struggle or a life of fear? Which would be better?

I only knew fear, and so did my mother and her mother and her mother’s mother.

The struggle was there as well, but the fear was dominating.

It was four in the morning, two hours left. We had been staring at each for an hour. Was she pretending to sleep until the moment came? Ready to put those daring eyes to use when needed?

Those tired eyes went from daring to pleading and then to anger. I felt all those emotions in me just as she felt them. Her tiny eyes expressing the agonizing feelings that her tiny mouth could not express.

I swear her hands were making fists. I looked to my right and scanned her closet. Five pieces of clothing, three warm but not warm enough. No shoes, a bag of diapers and not a single toy in sight.

It was thirty past four. Maybe today was not the day?

I looked down, not being able to hold her eyes any longer…and she whimpered.

The whimper of generations, of tired eyes, broken hearts, bruised bodies and broken dreams.

I could have sworn a tear fell down her tiny daring eye. My brain and body connected.

I shot up, the sweat rolled down my body. I looked out, it was cold. I shoved the three pieces of clothing and bag of diapers into a trash bag. Grabbed the bookbag that was hidden deep in her closest and headed to her crib. Tired eyed baby in hand, sweat dripping down my back and fear in every pore, I walked out the door.

This was the last tired eyed baby to be born.