My father died. He was an incredible man, not perfect, I was terrified of him until I became an adult, but he could do anything. Anything except cure the disease that was tearing away his strength. His muscles transforming from hard and strong, to weak and shaky.

I watch him sliding downwards into aged frustration as his body lost its abilities. And as he drifted away, my heart drifted with him. My father would have done anything for me, but an evil invaded his cells and transformed them into cancer. He would have done anything for me, but he couldn’t cure cancer.

“Hi Dad!” I said, smiling. I saw in those eyes the recognition. How can people talk with their eyes? I don’t know. But eyes talk, if we pay attention. And Dad’s eyes spoke with recognition and gladness that I was there with him. That he was glad to see me. That he loved me.

He died without opening his eyes again.

I was scoffed at, when I told my brother. He didn’t believe me that Dad was still there, and recognized me. He insisted he was already gone and that those were just spasms of a dying man, AND that’s why he never came to visit him. Oh brother, My brother, You were wrong.

My heart slid with him as he quietly drifted away from me. As I held his hand, whispering into his ear, how much I loved him, he opened his eyes for the first time in days. He looked straight into my eyes, beautiful green eyes, meeting my blue ones.