I have my Papa's eyes

What I'm listening to: Duet by Rachael Yamagata and Ray Lamontagne 

I have my Papa's eyes
My Papa's eyes live on in me, my sister, my father,
my son and my daughter.
I wear them with pride, my favorite part of me
I wink and peek and peer into the mirror 
And see his eyes wink back at me,
That mischievous smile he wore 
When he teased me 
"I am going to hang you by your ears!"
I giggle and picture my ears all stretched out,
hung by clothespins
on my grandmother's line,
alongside the white sheets and beach towels
breezy and billowing
and smelling warm like sunshine.

I have my Papa's eyes
and every sunrise I see reminds me of him.
"Can we watch the sunrise together, Papa?"
He gently wakes me while it is still dark.
He makes orange smoothies,
juice and berries and vanilla ice cream,
a perfect breakfast
in a color that matches the spilled creamsicle of the sun.
We set beach chairs side by side on his green lawn,
the cool morning-misty air kisses our skin,
we are met by his nodding flowers,
those that he so lovingly grew,
red and purple and white and blue.

I have my Papa's eyes, but I wish I had his thumbs as well.
They were green and from them, miracles sprouted
splashing color and painting life
onto his plain dirt patch in the suburbs.
He introduces us, 
teaches me each name,
crushes delicate petals under fingertips
and beckons me to breathe in the scent
of rosemary, sage, mint,
aloe, rose, petunias, and honeysuckle sweet.
Don't step in the ivy,
for it is there that the snakes find their hiding places.
We eat Chinese plums from the tree with wide, stiff leaves and he says
here, let's plant this one.
Put it in the ground and see what will happen.
So I pick a spot in the sun
right next to the clothesline with the billowing sheets.
He made me believe in the miracles I hold in my own hands.
It is my tree, and it grows,
its branches splayed.
It is stout and wide,
with a perfect branch for sitting
and perfect plums for eating
under the blinding summer sun.
While eyes are inherited, maybe green thumbs are not,
but someday I hope to whisper to the heavens,
see Papa? I have made my own garden,
with the miracles in my hands,
and it was inspired by you 
and your love for all things
that grow and blossom
and shade and heal
and offer beauty to the world

He asked me to sing him a song,
and when I sang
he lifted his hands toward heaven and closed his eyes
and cried.
I'll never forget.
It was a song I'd sung a hundred times before
and a hundred times since
but it will always mean something different to me now, forever.
How great is our God
who created my Papa's gentle gray eyes,
his strong hands and miracle thumbs,
his deep caramel skin, his creativity and his wit,
his Spanish tongue and playful smile,
and the legacy he left,
as a man who saw an angel and believed
that he was created for better things.