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.