She was born on a Sunday. A blue-eyed baby. Eyes wide open. A Sunday's child.
Sunday's child is full of grace. Sunday's child is fair of face. Sunday's child is gentle and mild. She was born on a Sunday morning; I guess she is Sunday's child.
She was born with eyes that questioned, eyes that demanded, eyes that saw beyond what others could see. A baby, an innocent, however, an old soul before her time. As she grew, her eyes witnessed life beyond her years. Silently and with great intent, she stored memories behind those blue eyes. Always looking, always inscribing, always focused on the now. Nothing forgotten, nothing left behind. Life catalogued behind searching blue eyes.
Her blue eyes saw tears. From laughter and from sorrow. She looked into the eyes of others and saw love and betrayal. Her blue eyes were a witness to life. They closed at times from the sheer weight of the power of what they saw, but never stayed closed for long. She had to have it all. Needed her eyes to take it all in and to tell her it was true.
As she grew older, her soft blue eyes turned fierce. Ready to defend and protect. Warrior eyes. Some would consider them as cold eyes, hard to look at, unexplainable. They were the eyes she would need at certain moments, the eyes she would need to survive. The eyes that told you she could do anything and you never doubted that fact.
Much much later, baby blue eyes now turned to opal blue. Wise, knowing, mysterious and frightening in their knowledge. Those eyes, once in the face of a baby born on Sunday, now powerful in the unflinching gaze of a woman who understood what it meant to be a Sunday's child.
[My weak attempt this time, to weave a third very short story around a word, "baby". The word, as always, provided by my friend and favorite poet Lerrnst. I don't feel that I've done his word justice this time and will surely beg his forgiveness ;) I'm certain he will forgive me this time. He inspires me regardless of my feeble attempt.]