Eye for an Eye: A Reflection on Memory, Perception, and First Encounters

I watched the apple, lazy-eyed.

I remember one summer—just before my birthday—standing in front of the mirror and meeting my own gaze. Every year, as my birthday approaches, I feel a quiet emotional shift. There is always a sense of nostalgia, sometimes even a subtle existential restlessness. I find myself tracing my life backwards, revisiting memories like pages in an old notebook.

This line begins with observation and curiosity. The phrase “lazy-eyed” carries a quiet play on perception. It suggests a gaze that is relaxed, perhaps innocent—but also slightly unfocused. It is the kind of looking that belongs to someone who sees the world without fully understanding it yet.

The apple itself holds multiple meanings: temptation, discovery, and a moment suspended in memory.

Growing up, I watched Snow White, and the apple in this line quietly echoes that story. In some of my poems, you may notice similar threads—small references woven through imagery, idioms, or cultural symbols. They are not always obvious at first glance, but for readers who pay close attention, these connections may slowly reveal themselves over time.

As a child, I found myself asking simple questions:
What did Snow White see in the apple that made her take a bite?
What kind of temptation makes someone ignore danger?

This line carries that same curiosity.

At the same time, the apple may also allude to the phrase “the apple of my eye.” This duality allows the image to move in two directions at once: toward temptation and toward affection.

Yet the phrase “lazy-eyed” shifts the perspective. It introduces the idea of girlhood—a stage where perception is still forming. When we are young, we see the world with wonder, but also with incomplete understanding.

In this line, I imagine a younger version of myself watching the apple with “lazy eyes”—one eye blurred, the other clear. The older version of me looks back and wonders: Did I perceive things differently because I was only half-seeing the truth?

The line becomes a quiet meditation on perception—on how the way we see things in youth inevitably changes with time.

Burgundy my hair was dyed.

Color adds emotional texture to memory.

Burgundy—a deep, muted red—suggests warmth, intensity, and, at times, melancholy.

Red has always been one of my favorite colors. Growing up, I experimented often with my hair, changing styles and colors every few months. There was a time, back in junior high school, when I dyed it burgundy.

Looking back, I realize that my hairstyles often mirrored different phases of my girlhood. Each shift reflected a subtle transformation in how I saw myself—or perhaps how I wanted to be seen.

In this way, the color becomes more than a physical detail. It becomes a marker of identity, anchored to a specific moment in time.

Time gone by. I remember mid-July.

This line grounds the memory in time.

Flashback: July, circa 2014.

In the Philippines, July signals the beginning of the rainy season and the return to school life. The atmosphere changes—the air grows heavier, the skies dim, and routines settle back into place.

Because of this, July carries a distinct emotional tone. It exists in between—the fading freedom of summer and the quiet return of responsibility.

By naming mid-July, the poem situates the memory not only in time, but in a particular emotional climate.

You waved your hand and whispered, “Hi.”

Sometimes, the smallest gestures carry the greatest weight.

A simple greeting—a wave, a quiet “hi”—can mark the beginning of something far larger than it seems. In poetry, these moments matter because they feel ordinary, yet gain meaning in hindsight.

This line introduces the connection that drives the rest of the poem. It is the spark—the point where observation turns into interaction.

From this brief exchange unfolds everything that follows: memory, attachment, reflection, and eventual realization.

It is where curiosity becomes connection.

And where the story truly begins.