- Essay by Meghan Chamberlin

I can't remember the color of his eyes. Does that make me a bad great-granddaughter? The harder I reach into my memory the more difficult it becomes to recall. It makes me wonder, did I ever pay enough attention to him to notice the color well enough? As a little girl I sat on his lap thousands of times, glaring into them, like a child glares into an empty cookie jar, searching for something. I know that whatever color they were it must have been a soft, sweet shade inside his eyes like almonds. Still, I cannot recall the color and it breaks my heart. I know that I could just ask a relative but it wouldn't be the same as if I had remembered myself. It is strange how the brain works. Choosing to forever grab hold of certain memories and at the same time letting others fade away into the background. The dull, lifeless background of what we want so badly to hold onto but just can't.

Perched on top of his skinny legs as he scratches his rough white beard, I am five years old again. The world is one big candy coated dream and I will forever be the princess that sits on top of the grand King's lap. I gaze at his face and examine the wrinkles that sit patiently around his eyes and mouth, knowing that they will only deepen in time. I am still very young and I know that he will get older each year but I never believe that he will fade away from me. He will never drift from my sight and I will always be resting on top of his lap. He wraps his arms around me and it is as if he is pouring a big pitcher of love into my tiny body. He tells me I am his little treasure and I picture myself hiding in a golden chest at the bottom of the deep sea. Looking up from the bottom, I can see the sun glaring down on me illuminating everything. I am at home sitting on his lap in the crowded living room. His wool trousers scratch against my pale legs and make them itch. That doesn't matter though because I am here with him and not even a giant cookie could slew me away from sitting here. I look down at his signature suspenders that he puts on every morning over his thin white t-shirt and flannel polo. They have tiny roses on them and green vines wrapping around each tiny flower bud. The roses float up to his face, bringing me back to the eyes which I cannot recall the color of.

I am no longer five and I no longer sit on his lap in that same crowded living room. When I visit my Nonny I look at the room with its cold emptiness. His spot on the couch still sits there, looking miserable and empty. It makes me think. Is he looking down on me from heaven? Is he proud of his little treasure? Does he know that when I think of him I sometimes cry from missing him so badly? Can he recall the color of my eyes?