His Face
I try not to look at him. Not directly, anyway. Not in the face. Watching him from a distance is different, safe. Sometimes, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but I always catch myself and look away before anything can come of it. I really love him. I love him more than anything in the world, and I know looking at him shouldn't bother me, but the truth is, it does. Because I am weak. After all that V did for me, after all that I've been through and all that I've seen, I'm still weak. And of course, he notices. He never mentions it, but I know he notices. I can feel his disappointment. He'll not speak for a long time afterwards, and when he finally does speak, it's in a low, almost guilty voice. Never accusatory. Always quiet resignation. I guess he feels like he's done something wrong . . . And I hate that I make him feel that way. It's so far from the truth. It happened over breakfast this morning. There were no words. I just couldn't keep from staring into those wide, blue eyes. After a minute or two, I was shaking. He quietly excused himself, and hasn't left his room since. My head dropped, but only partially out of shame. He knows seeing his face upsets me, but I don't think he knows why. When I look into my son's eyes, I can see his father, and every time is like the first time.
