Eyes remember in the middle of things. They neglect to record the beginning and they certainly stop before the end.
Eyes remember the situation being far less grave than it became once they shifted to the open window at the staircase’s bottom.
Eyes remember drying out as the brisk winter draft poured over the window’s ledge and began to fill the house.
Eyes remember the bl-eye-nding flash of head beams glaring through the window at the start of the burgundy car parked at the end of our snowflaked driveway.
Eyes remember swiveling back to my drowning mother as she feigned the ability to breathe in the filling house. But they more so remember swiveling back to the window.
Eyes remember their fixation on those other eyes, those afflicting eyes, the eyes of my father gripping the steering wheel of the burgundy car. His pupils overflowed with a black rage but were wet with a tormented gloss that Eyes remembered but did not see at the time.
Eyes remember the stoop of the house and the view from the passenger’s seat. But Eyes do not remember the feet walking. Eyes do not remember the arms swinging.
Eyes remember the tear-stained cheeks and terror-eyes of my two younger brothers shuttering from over my shoulder in the back seat of the car.
Eyes remember the deranged manner of my father’s unbreaking, forward stare as he peeled back from the driveway.
Eyes remember the tawny glow of the ever-shrinking doorway that I left open to drain. Yet, out flowed my frenzied mother as she chased the car to the end of the block, until she too started to shrink.
Eyes remember the moon’s reflection suppressed within the blackness of the tw-eye-light lake only to have its aqueous surface shattered by a ceaseless drive of rage.
Eyes remember the middle of things. Because there is no end for the Eyes to remember.
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