For a time, he saw her only peripherally, blended within the landscape of neighbors and the congregation.
But then he saw her in her garden, kneeling over a patch of earth, pressing the black soil into little mounds, promising the bulbs they would bloom. She sat back on her heels and arched her body into an S – face, breasts and buttocks worshipping the sun.
She looked at him as she always had, with sea glass eyes into which he fell completely.
Thirty years passed. His world became gray and cold. Except for her eyes, they were always spring.
And whenever there was music, he asked the band to play “Ojos Verdes.” He held her close and thought of how similar “verde” and “verdad” sounded, which made perfect sense, because she was his truth.
That’s a short story I wrote for a monthly contest for which “Green Things” was the prompt. The problem? I got distracted and didn’t submit the story before the deadline. So, now you all get to read it instead.
This story was inspired by my grandmother, whose green eyes continue to prompt many a band to play “Ojos Verdes.”