Photo by Peter Rosbjerg
My father looks down, and though half his face
Is shrouded in darkness,
I can see his eyes.
I love his eyes.
I always wanted them, though
They would never suit me.
My features are dark. We are opposites
On the outside. Every light feature of his,
A counterpoint to every dark one of mine.
I have my mother’s eyes.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I have my mother’s everything.
Well almost everything.
He smells of sawdust when I inhale,
I can taste it in my throat, feel the slight burn.
But with it, comes the sweet aroma
Of infinite memories.
His voice is low and his eyes swirl when he’s excited.
I don’t know what he’s talking about,
But I can tell it’s something that makes him happy.
Maybe it’s a book he read,
Or an article in the Times,
Or a memory from “way back when,”
Or a new project he should probably leave to the professionals.
But whatever it is, I listen to the steady rise
And fall of his voice. So soft that it too is a part of the darkness.
I listen to the voice that sounds like mine,
Only smoother, wiser, aged,
And think back to when he’d talk me to sleep
Telling me stories of trickling streams and blooming treetops,
Rich with life and youth and beauty and eternal importance
Swimming with mysteries and stories that have never been uncovered,
With the color and understated grace
Of the eyes I stare back at.