The Writer’s Eye

As a child I was always fascinated by people to the point of being morbidly curious.

One of the adults I happen to be with, be it at a resturant or any other public place, would grip my arm and hiss in my ear, “Stop staring…” I would rub my arm, look up accusingly before my eyes would wonder helplessly back. It could have been a couple having an argument, children behaving badly or a group of loud teenagers that had caught my attention.

I remember, in my early teens, the first funeral I attended was that of an aunt. Sad as I was, I found myself inching closer to the coffin, taking note of who was crying and how genuine their tears were and which of the mourners weren’t even pretending to cry. I would note what the women were wearing … always black in contrast to their made-up faces…the shoes the men were wearing and whether they were polished or not.

I was aware of whether there were clouds in the sky. I would wonder what the priest was really feeling as he droned on and on.

I’m still obsessively interest in people but I like to think that with age, my curiosity or, ‘Writer’s Eye’ is tempered with compassion.

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