Aunt Orla's Eyes

Aunt Orla consumed board games and half cheese sandwiches with equal vigor. Her thick, cat-eyed glasses hid violet eyes, “just like Elizabeth Taylor!” Mother would say. But unlike Liz, her eyes did not allow for jumping black stallions or cats on hot tin roofs. Perched a mere inch from the Chinese Checkers board and able to see just shadows, still she knew I’d cheated. For this she possessed a marksman’s depth of vision and she’d forever set things right. 

Along with sandwiches and sweets, her kitchen was also a dish served as if from a recipe languishing in her father’s cigar box. “Daddy’s precious cargo all the way from Fox’s of Grafton Street, Dublin. His single possession when he stepped foot off the boat!” she’d remind us. And that recipe never varied: one part oppressive desert heat, just the essence of aroma from the Western Holly, and a pinch of damp air from the swamp-box. The cooler teetering on the sill hadn’t ever made anyone cool in Aunt Orla’s kitchen, added humidity and the smell of mold to the air.

She navigated the gameboard with ease just as easily as she finds the oven to pull the apple pie from the oven, half cheese sandwich in hand, ready for another round.