Eyes

    After the death of a parent, a child is never the same again. Like a burr caught in flesh, the

more it is fussed over the more it will rip into the tender pink skin. I wonder what my father was

like as a 10 year old boy. The innocent, original and pure being of my father before the death of

my grandfather. Was he different from the man who bustles around in the next room making

pizza? Was the boy a prankster? Could he have run around the family farm without a care in

the world, never letting the thought protrude his orb of security that his father would one day die

in front of his eyes? As I look at the fifty-one year old man that is my father I do not want to

ponder whether or not he will leave my side one day. I see the wrinkles of years past filled with

love, happiness, heartbreak and strength. The eyes of mismatching color reflect the toil of a

hard day at work yet a glint of mischievous boyhood swims intermittently in the sea of labor.

Never do I want those eyes to lose that funny little glint.