Gazing at the deserted shelves of aisle 7, I reminisce about the very first day I met her. Her luminous hazel eyes were a radiating warm sun warmed with inner gold. When combined with the gentleness of her other facial features and honeyed skin she was capable of soothing and calming down even an extremely forlorn soul.  It was in “this” aisle 7, on a similar hurricane eve, when she’d rushed in, to stock up. Her wide luminous hazel eyes were caressed by her tousled curls, aaaahhhhh…… sheer bliss for my eyes.

I was dragged out from my reminiscence by the mutterings of an octogenarian “all are gone”. Her frail face clearly showcased dejection, as the shelves were stripped bare, owing to mass panic buying.

I offered sharing my meagre groceries, to which she readily complied. With an overwhelming sense of gratitude, she kissed my hand and uttered “I lost my husband 50 years back; he precisely looked like you. He was handsome from the depth of his eyes to the gentle expressions of his deep baritone. I loved the way his voice quickened when he sparkled with a new idea, or was so enjoying one of mine that he lost himself for a moment. So, I gave him my heart and kept his safe, that’s the way it was, until a horrific accident snatched him away from me”.

Before I could react, it was time for me to take her leave to again dissipate into the howling wind. I glanced at her one last time, I couldn’t help myself falling in love with her all over again. Age can’t touch that kind of beauty, it’s just there, static and pristine. But her eyes displayed her soul. They were a deep pool of restless gold, an ocean of hopeless grief. As I looked into her eyes I knew, all the beauty of the universe could not even hope to compete with her even though she has grown old.

Fifty years later, her hazel eyes were still luminous, emitting pure love and her kiss still magical!