The Man with the Kind Eyes

This can't be real. This can't be how it ends. Staring back at my own reflection, I didn't recognise myself. Nothing could ever be the same again. I could never be the same again. I found myself noticing insignificant things about my complexion, trying to make sense of this situation. My eyes were round and the colour of honey. Staring into my own eyes unsettled me, as it felt as though I was looking at someone else. It felt as though I'd stole these eyes from someone who suited them much better. Honey was sweet, and to be sweet, you have to be kind. Kindness was the last thing I was feeling right now.

My mother sat before me, her eyes wet with tears. I couldn't bare to look at her, even for a moment. The pain I felt would only amplify, and I couldn't handle it. If I felt one more ounce of pain, I was almost certain I might break into a million pieces, with no one to put me back together. I shifted a tissue box across the table towards her with reluctance, my eyes remaining firmly on my reflection. My tears felt thick as they slid down my face, as if my eyes were honey jars, overflowing with richness.

"When did I meet him?" My voice was shaky as I tried to remain firm in my tone.

I hear a soft whimper released from the back of her throat, in an attempt to contain her emotions. I had never liked to see my mother cry. It brought a pain that wrenched in my stomach and evoked a need to comfort her. Today was the only exception. Comforting this woman, this stranger, was the last thing on my mind.

"It was quite a few years back now, when you were only a young girl."

As she began to speak, I pictured the moment in my head, vividly, grasping onto every minute detail she provided. All the while, the honey continued to drip, and my eyes continued to feel less and less my own...

-

"Mum!" I clutched at my floral skirt with impatience. She was ignoring me and didn't see me jump from the jungle gym. I remember being so furious at her, I hadn't noticed for quite a few moments that she was conversing with someone I'd never seen before. Who is she talking to?, I thought. I saw my mother sitting rigidly on a park bench, a man crouched beside her, as if he was comforting a frightened child. I skipped over to them, with a hesitance in my step. Mum had always warned me not to talk to strangers. I wondered whether this man was a stranger to her. I certainly hadn't seen him around before. As I approached them, my mother looked up with guilt and fear in her eyes. I hadn't noticed it back then, my childlike innocence barring any intuition that I might have had now.

"Grace, go and play on the jungle gym." Her voice, I remember, was filled with anguish. I remember worrying I had done something wrong, for her voice had never sounded this way. I kept my concern to myself of course, because Mum always taught me that there is a time and a place. With this strange man crouching only a few feet away from me, it didn't feel like it was the right time or place.

"Who are you talking to, Mum?" The man glanced my way, with kind eyes. That's what I remember about him. His kind eyes. The man with kind eyes. His eyes too, were the colour of honey.

"Hello there, you must be Gracey." He knew my name, but he called me by something else. A nickname. I had never had a nickname before, but somehow, hearing him say it brought me comfort. I never understood why. Until now.

-

I could feel her eyes on me, begging for me to meet her gaze. She needed me to comfort her, like I always had. My mother had never been very good at confrontation.

"Please, Gracey. You have to understand-"

"Don't call me that!" I felt rage bubbling inside me. How dare she call me by that name after everything. It wasn't her nickname to use. She stole it. Just like she stole Him from my life.

"Did he ever want to know me?"

"Of course he did. How could he not?"

"So why?" Why would she keep him from me? Why wouldn't she tell me? Even when I was standing face to face with him, she still didn't tell me. She lied. I mourned his loss, as though I'd known him. I visited what I thought was his grave.

"Who did we visit every year?" It sure as hell wasn't my father.

-

"Mum, why do all of the other kids get to have a Dad?" Again, I clutched my skirt. I had quite a few anxious tendencies back then. Chalk it up to having no father figure around, and always having to defend myself. The kids would torment me for it. They would tease and snicker at the girl with no father. But I remember not caring one bit. I remember standing up to them, tall and strong, because my Daddy was a war hero who died protecting our country. My Daddy mattered.

"Honey, those children were lucky. But you were lucky too. Your father was so important and was a hero. You must never forget that." And I never did. Until now.

-

"It was-um, it was an old friend of your father's who died. In Afghanistan." I laid down flowers and weeped for hours upon hours for a stranger? For a man who had no significance to my life, ever?

"I must have looked like a fool, huh Mum?" The gravediggers must have laughed at me. Look at the little girl mourning for someone who doesn't exist. Look at the little girl with the honey eyes, so naive and misguided.

"No one thinks you are a fool, Grace-"

"I do, Mum. I do." How could she tell me that I wasn't a fool when I spent my whole life being lied to, never realising it.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Did you really think this would be best for me? That I would never find out?" She kept him from me. She lied to me and all she had to say for it was sorry?! The only moment I will ever get to share with my father was at a stupid jungle gym where I was worried more about stranger danger than the fact that we looked exactly alike. The fact that be both had honey eyes, his bearing more kindness than mine ever would. A kindness that I would never get to feel. Never get to witness. And what, she is sorry?

"There is nothing you can say to make this okay, Mum." And with that, I stood up and walked right out the door, the sounds of my mother's sobs fading away as I walked further, and further down the road.

I walked and walked, towards the real gravesite. The gravesite where my father was buried just twelve days ago...

I didn't get to know him. I didn't get to choose. And now, every day until I die, I will remember the man with the kind eyes. The man with the kind, honey-coloured eyes who called me Gracey...