I Have Her Eyes

Sometimes, researching your family can lead to self-discovery. You might uncover interesting facts or document family stories that were only partially known to you as a child. For me, the most thrilling part is finding photographs of my relatives. I recently found a photo of my second great-grandfather Alvis, and my delight was so overwhelming that I literally danced in a circle. Yet, this joy was surpassed by another photograph.

One of my most heartfelt goals during my research was to find a photo of my paternal grandmother, who died of appendicitis before I was born. I grew up hearing that my paternal grandparents looked so much alike they could be mistaken for blood relatives. It sounded unbelievable until my father's death in 2006 seemed to confirm it. At his funeral, one of her sisters, whom I had never met, was there in her stead. Our first eye contact was tearful; I was not surprised, as I was also in tears. I was mourning my father, and she was mourning her nephew.

After the service, she spoke with my siblings and me at my paternal aunt's house, where the repast was held. Later, she approached me as I stood alone by the window. She apologized for a minor disagreement we had at my father's funeral and expressed hope that her initial reaction upon seeing me hadn't shocked me too much. I reassured her that it hadn't, considering the circumstances. Dorothy then confided that it wasn't solely my father's death that had moved her. She revealed that I bore a striking resemblance to her sister, my grandmother, and that seeing me had overwhelmed her with emotion, as if she were looking into the eyes of her sister once again.

The interaction was comforting, yet it intensified my longing to see her face more than ever, especially since I bear an unmistakable resemblance to my father and his father. This desire was compounded by a feeling of emptiness in my heart, a common sentiment in family research. Often, the more you discover, the more you feel is missing. That conversation left a profound impact on me. On the bus ride back to Cleveland, I was engulfed in sadness: sad for the loss of my father, and sad for the likelihood that I would never see his mother, who I learned I also resembled. It had been relayed to me years ago that a house fire had destroyed all photos of my grandmother.

Fast forward 14 years to 2020. I was conversing with my Aunt Ann, my father's sister who had hosted the repast. I shared with her the events of that day and my deep sorrow over the realization that I would never see my grandmother. My aunt corroborated the tale of the house fire. She had provided valuable information about other relatives for my research, yet the call ended with me feeling a void. Then, a couple of hours later, I received a text from Aunt Ann. The text read:

This is a photo of Mildred. Mildred is your grandmother's sister. The family has always said they looked like and were confused for twins all of their lives and it was true. I hope this helps your heart in some way. I love you.

You see, my Aunt Ann is my father's sister, and they share the same mother—the grandmother I never met. So, if she says they looked alike, it must be true, right? I stared at the photo for the longest time, tears streaming down my face. I now understood exactly how her sister Dorothy felt at my dad's funeral. If Mildred and my grandmother were often mistaken for twins as they grew up, then I truly have her eyes.