There were many times during my childhood when my father would turn to me, with his glasses balanced near the tip of his nose and his hands wrestling nervously with each other below his chin, and try to talk to me about my mother. He always had the same look in his eyes - a look that coupled warm affection with deep, enduring sadness. It was a look too complex for my young mind to fully comprehend; a look that you can only give once you experience the tragic loss of true love.
I would always stare back at him, my simple, piercing blue eyes meeting his, which were all brown and subtle and full of the pain of living. And we would hold each other's gazes as he tried to find the words, stumbling over his sentences until those complicated eyes were blinking back uncomplicated tears, primal emotion spilling down his cheeks, and then we would turn away from each other. Him, overcome with a grief that never leaves you, that clings to you like an addiction that you can never shake. And me, frustratingly numb to it all.
