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How long has it been since I looked into his eyes? Can I even bear to hold his gaze? Each time my eyes lift to meet his brilliant, blue ones, I pull away—afraid of what my heart might feel. But now the house is dark and quiet, and although I long to retire from the weary day, I linger in this one room and dare to look up into his eyes.

God, I don’t know if I can do this.

His photo is taped to the kitchen cupboard. Although he deserves an elegant frame and prominent place in my home, I needed him here. Right here in the middle of my daily chores and chaos. Right here at eye level so I can glance at him as I go about my day. He is here in plain sight, not blending into the décor of my home. Because grieving isn’t about forgetting, it’s about bringing them close.

His blue eyes call to me from the photograph. Can my heart stay together if I keep my eyes on him for more than a moment? Tears rim my eyes and sobs escape. It hurts too much, but I keep my eyes on him. This is the one picture I know he really is looking back at me. I was the one who took it.

I remember that day. It was Father’s Day 2011. Never could we have imagined on his next Father’s Day he would be only one day away from heaven. But on this day, Blonde Boy and First Boy adorned him with special gifts only a Papa could love. It was I who held the camera shooting frame by frame of him and his grandsons. Then Blonde Boy snuggles in close for a silly peek-a-boo pose, and in that very moment my father’s brilliant, blue eyes danced with LIFE into the camera lens.


Tears fall as I know there will be no more pictures. No more photos to frame or tape to an old kitchen door. No more memories to capture. No more phone messages. No more visits. No more. None. I am left with the reality of what these eyes will never see.

These eyes—these brilliant, blue eyes—will never see my boys grow up to become men.

These eyes will never look into mine and smile the way his did on that day.

These eyes will never reminisce with me through old photos.

These eyes will never see ahead at what I may be missing.

These eyes will never see Blonde Boy lose his first tooth.

These eyes will never watch First Boy drive his golf cart.

These eyes will never convey, ‘I love you LA.’

These eyes will never read the blogs I write just for him.

These eyes will never again look into mine. They just won’t.

I know what you’re thinking. I will see him again someday. You’re right—I will. But forgive me, if all I want is to see his eyes right here, right now—blinking, dancing and laughing as his brilliant, blue eyes always did.

I miss you Dad. I really do.

Music for the Moment

You Raise Me Up by Josh Groban