My Granddaughter's Eyes

My Granddaughter’s Eyes

By Gerardine Gail Baugh

My granddaughters' eyes,

dark brown with laughing lights,

her father's eyes, mirroring

springtime's brown of a forest floor-

shaped like her mother's hushed pools of blue sky.

My granddaughter's hair,

my sister's ringlets of dark brown,

softly curled like my fathers-

slipping over one eye,

not tightly curled like her dad's dark brown,

silver rooted dreadlocks,

over her father's rounded forehead

his sister's forehead, and

his ninety-seven-year-old grandmother's forehead.

In a video taken a few days ago,

she smiled and waved, wearing a green housecoat,

spoke with that sweet sing-song Mississippi sound,

she did standing-arm-push-ups off her silver walker,

to show she was well, she laughed.

framed by her off-white wooden front porch,

she waved, then slowly, aided by her walker,

she made her way into her home

My granddaughter

waving chubby arms, trying to stand,

on her-our perfect legs

Her olive skin, coffee with heavy cream,

lighter than her dad's chestnut,

slightly richer than her mom's ivory,

an amalgamation of families.

A blessing of shades,

she used me as her trampoline,

bouncing, bubbling out raspberries

with a strong baby stance, amidst

lucky puppy and dinosaur's growls.

on her perfect legs, she takes a step

then sinks to her knees on our rainbow rug.