My Father’s Eyes

You probably don't know, but when I was a kid, my eyes used to spend many hours at night looking down the street waiting to meet your eyes again. While this visual encounter didn't happen, I used to spend most of my nights looking at the world through my bedroom window. I used to keep an eye on passing cars with their circular headlights illuminating not only the darkness of the street but the darkness of my life as well. I used to see people returning to their homes after a full day of work. Tiredness and frustration were stamped on their faces. Coming home and resting a few hours was the stupid reward for those who had just sold 10 hours of their days for economic progress. I also used to see couples strolling in front of my building, hands held. Certainly, they were making plans for a better life, considering marriage, babies, a new loan for a home, a new car, all these stuff that allow us to get a “happy” life.

I used to spend hours seeing all sorts of situations, but you were taking too long to arrive. I waited for you every night. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. But I never waited for you in vain. When I saw you walking down Herculano de Freitas Street, when you appeared in my frame, when the electronic gate beeped, I yelled loud your name to warn the entire population of Earth that happiness finally arrived in my life. Living wouldn't be fun without that moment. Seeing you arrive was a reward more than deserved for a 7-year-old girl who walked silently around the world.

I used to spend many hours at night looking out at the street waiting for the moment to see your eyes looking at mine. How nice to receive so much affection in one glance. Your eyes were the only ones able to heal my wounds. They were the only ones able to restore my soul. It was your eyes, finally, that made me strong.