My Father's Eyes

I truly saw my father for the first time the other day. No words were spoken, but I understood. Sitting holding his hand, listening to nonsensical sounds and witnessing chaotic movements. His face wrought with tension, some how I saw beyond the form.

As I gazed into his eyes I saw a yearning, a yearning to be heard, to be recognized. Language at that moment became unnecessary and superfluous. Then something beyond intellect took over and we spoke in the most intuitive and heartfelt way.

He told me of his deep sadness and unspoken pain. He spoke of his regrets and of the sorrow he felt for giving up on his family, for giving up on himself. Underlying our subtle exchange I sensed, for the first time, a profound love. Love which held no condition or pretense.

Before my father's decline into a nearly mute world he could say none of these things. Yet now, in spite of his struggle, he need not use words. It was loud and clear and I understood.

It is in the first and last moments of life that one recalls this primal language.
This language of the heart, which expresses the inner loving essence of the soul that shines from the eyes.

Speechless
by John and Em

Harry Potter is often told that he looks like his father, with his mother's eyes. Our mother was recently told that she looked like her father. Our grandfather is, at the moment unintelligible, often dissolving into fits of frustration in which he shakes his fists and sometimes cries.

He left our grandmother when our mother was not quite eleven. He remarried and was eventually diagnosed with dementia. He can say few recognizable words, although he recognizes our family and becomes upset when we leave.

My sisters do not really understand what is wrong with him. They draw pictures for our grandfather's wall, but are very quiet when doing so. I am equally quiet, but I understand a bit more.

As I conclude this blog, I think of the things my mother has written of before. I think that this will be different.