Your Eyes Tell A Story

My eighth grade year, my class went to Washington D.C. on a week-long trip. On the last day, we went to the Smithsonians. My friend Jack and I went to the Air and Space Museum, and ended up having lunch there. If you've ever been, the room where all the food is has these giant tables, which means that no matter what, you'll be sitting with at least one person you don't know. So he and I sat down, and after a little bit, this older southern couple started talking to us. She had been talking about beauty pageants and models and how obly the pretty are allowed to know they're beautiful. Then she turned to us. There were two other girls from our svhool with us, and neither were very pretty at all. So she looks at us and says, "You don't have to be pretty to be beautiful." We -being New England kids- just looked at her. New Englanders think socializing with strangers is wicked weird, but apparently southerners love it. So we started talking to her, to be polite. And she kept talking about beauty, and how we were all beautiful. She kept looking at me a lot the whole time, and when she was finally done talking about beauty, and she and her husband were done eating, she got up. By this time, the other girls and Jack had started talking about one thing or another. Well, the woman looked at me kind of strangely, and said, "Your eyes tell a story." And then she left. I've been told my eyes are beautiful -they're golden brown, and sometimes turn a shade of golden red, kind of crimson, in the sun- but never that they tell a story. That day has just stuck with me. It's been two years since then, and my story's gotten longer, and sadder. But happier too. I wonder if she'd notice if I ever saw her again.