I felt the company of another’s gaze, so I turned to my left, and found the owner of the gaze.


Milky blue eyes peered down from beyond spectacles, and smiled in reply.


‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m looking at you.’

I chuckled. And as I reached for the cinnamon, I inquired of this man seated next to me with a fondness in my cadence, ‘Tell me, why are you looking at me?’

I anticipated the familiar flicker in his cheek, the herald of humour and wit, but when my glance rested back with his eyes, they were met with a settled sincerity.

‘Why? I’m looking at you because I don’t see you enough.’

A moment of profundity mingled with the buttering of toast and pouring of juice, as he spoke a hundred words through the warm expression on his wrinkled face.

‘I don’t see you enough either, Pa.’

And the current of the conversation wove on across the breakfast table.