His Eyes Through a Window

By Phoebe Weinstein, age 11
His Eyes Through a Window Phoebe Weinstein is an 11-year-old writer who lives in New York City. She enjoys writing in a range of genres, such as poetry, realistic fiction, and playwriting. Other than writing, Phoebe also likes debating political issues, such as presidential candidates and human rights. She was inspired to write this story because she is interested in stepping out of her comfort zone. Although unfamiliar with the situation that is featured in her poem (the death of a newborn), she loved expanding on a topic that she felt strongly about.

“His crystal eyes caught a glimpse of the outside world,
a world filled with natural beauty,
a world that sang with joy from the perfect chaos of nature.”

The newborn child

opened his eyes

and blinked into the sunlight of the coming dawn.

The open window breathed in fresh air

and he did too,

taking in oxygen for the first time.

Eventually,

the tiny blue eyes of the child

found the curtains covering the glass

and the crack of light they let through.

His crystal eyes caught a glimpse of the outside world,

a world filled with natural beauty,

a world that sang with joy from the perfect chaos of nature.

The birds could be heard by the tiny one,

birds that just wanted to fly, fly,

higher than the sun

and the stars.

The people wished the same,

the ones the child could watch,

pacing up and down the lawns.

But they argued with one another,

and cried for one another,

and embraced one another.

They fought and fought,

watching the shadows play on the faces of the rest

and the tears run down from their eyes,

a silent warning

of any coming storm.

The bright sun was darkened by a cloud,

and the child’s face was concealed in darkness.

When the rain fell,

he watched the raindrops hit the window

and fall to the dusty sill,

darkening his world.

The people outside shifted,

their decisions focused on themselves, using their coats

to shield the raindrops from their already

tear-stained faces.

As he watched,

the lightning flashed a warning to the child,

and the thunder clapped along.

Frightened,

the tiny newborn turned away

and instead rested his eyes on his mother;

he saw the tired woman

who sat across from him on the grey sheets,

her blonde head framed

by the whitewashed walls.

She looked back at her child with a mixture of contempt

and love.

Confused, he searched for a father

to hold him

when the mother could not.

But the only man in the room was an old doctor

with greying hair

and stitches in his old coat

that had been ripped and torn

too many times.

He held the boy up,

and so the child saw the fatigue in his dark face,

the pity in his eyes.

They were grey,

stormy like the clouds

conversing outside his window.

The child was sorrowful,

disappointed in the lack of color in this dusty room

with too many bookshelves.

He heard his mother speak,

her voice softer

than the fierce demeanor that she breathed.

She blinked once,

Slowly,

asking for the child

without words

but with actions.

The doctor obeyed, walking, almost flying

to her with the grace of an eagle.

The child felt movement,

felt himself soar over the obstacles in his path,

his reward being the outstretched arms

of his mother that seemed too cold.

The quiet young woman

leaned over her baby,

allowing her thin blonde hair

to tickle his soft skin.

She whispered in his tiny ear. The sounds,

though incomprehensible to him,

were soothing.

Her voice washed over the small body

and he relaxed,

his tiny blue fist unclenching.

The doctor, too old and tired to help,

looked on with the eyes of a man

who has gone through too much pain.

The mother,

like so many,

let her tears fall, and the dark water

fell from her clouded eyes

to his bright ones.

The tiny,

blue,

unwanted child in her cold arms

looked out the grey window,

and,

for the last time,

closed his

eyes.

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