In her eyes

I saw her sitting there today. I had just gotten home from school. My grandparents were there. They usually come to the U.S for doctors’ appointments, which are two times a month. My grandma just sat there probably listening to my grandpa speak. He and my dad were talking about politics. I love to listen.
Still I cannot avoid her. My grandma just sat there. Now I believe she maybe lost in thought or just starring into nothing. She suffers from something. I don’t recall the name. Grandma constantly repeats conversations and has difficulty remembering things. Not to be mean but I enjoy watching her.
“ That is the problem with the Mexican Government”, my grandpa said referring to the President elections. Grandma hair is so nice. It has been, for as long as I can remember. He hair is silky and it’s not gray, it is metallic silver. To add to such beauty take a leap into her eyes.
They seem to resemble an everlasting poem. They are filled with so many secrets and stories that one cannot tell. So glossy, for its tears that makes them gleam. Years of emotions washed away the kindness in them. The poem in her eyes can tell you her heart but only she can decipher what they say. For those eyes are hers, and only hers to have.
Every now and then that poem makes a wonderful flaw. A tear escapes, but never to exceed from that. I cannot console her. The entire world could try, but they would fail miserably. None can give her back her memories.
Even though she was born in Texas she prefers to live in Mexico. All her family is here in the States, but her memories linger in that house she moved into fifty years ago. In that house she raised ten kids.  It’s that same house in which many of her grandchildren had visited long ago Her husband owns a small convenient store. People come and people go. Time has washed away customers. Time has forgotten loyalty. Time has washed things away. My grandma’s mind is gone. I wish I knew more about her.
I wish to read her poem. My mind is afraid of what may come. I do not wish to bring her more sadness. Try my best not to bother her. Never have conversations, just talk. I feel her pain. Still I sit in a distance staring at her. Hypnotized by her poem. Observing her hope of having her life back. Taking in her life. Seeing her false hope of returning to a place only she can visit.