They were the eyes haunted by a scarred life. Big and hazel, yet so vacant. There was a past lost in those eyes, one that went beyond the soft color. He seldom smiled, and when he did, those eyes failed to show it.

The eyes stared into space for a while, and one could almost see memories in them, but those were imbedded too deeply to grope. They remained fixed into space as the weathered hand grabbed the book he had left ignored for a while on the tabletop, and he continued to ignore it as his eyes sat there, stationary. Then, with a sigh and a recline, he let those eyes fall on the pages as he flipped through them, searching for where he had left off. In time, the page was found, and the reading was resumed. It was a large book, he had begun reading it at dawn, and now, into mid-afternoon, he was halfway through it.

"Grandpa?"

"Hm?"

"Are you going to take me for a walk? Daddy said you would."

"Soon, honey. Let me finish this chapter."

She walked over to the window of the small room and started tracing smiley faces and stick figures into the foggy pane. When she had filled the window, she plopped onto the middle of the sofa opposite him and brought her knees to her chin. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she sat there in silent protest.

The first tear finally decided to fall when he looked up.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Let's go?"

He took her by the hand and they walked pleasantly outside, in the cold.

She filled him in on her recess, her school day, her week, her weekend, and she would have gone on to her month and told stories he'd already heard from her last visit if they hadn't already rounded the block. He only listened.

When his son came to pick the child up, the sad hazel eyes gave up on reading and the old man went to bed instead, though it was early, even by his standards.

He dreamt of things better not told.

He woke with the sun beaming on his eyelids. Half-awake, he got out of bed, put slippers on, and walked out the door. The freezing temperatures outside squeezed sleep from his eyes.

He went for a walk with his night clothes on. Whoever would notice an old, sad-looking man roaming around a near-empty neighborhood in the early hours of the morning, and whoever would think it odd that he was in pajamas and shallow slippers in this shrieking cold? They might pity him, but that was it. Maybe whisper to themselves: "Poor senile old man." Nothing more. He would be forgotten before the day ended.

Besides, he needed time to think. He gave himself ample time.

Only two hours later he had been able to shake off the uneasy feelings the dreams had given him and headed back. It would take another two hours to be left with the memories only, to become a detached bystander, watching the scenes play out before him. But it was getting too cold for that.

He pulled his chair deeper under the table and poised the pencil over the sheet of paper. He started writing, but stopped before he had finished a paragraph.

I wasn't always like this. The scribbling said. But what I had been is lost to me forever. This is all I can claim to be - it is all I've ever known.

He sat there, the paper lying on the table in front of him, arms hanging limply at his sides, head thrown back, a woeful look on his face: the very image of surrender. He forced his head down, picked up the book, but not in time to stop the tears from slipping from his eyes. He put the book down and covered his face with his gnarled hands.


The night before, when she was being put to bed at night, the little girl had asked:  "Daddy, why is Grandpa so quiet? He looks so sad all the time." And daddy had replied with a sigh: "I don't know."