Judging A Book Requires A Second Look {11}

As we exchanged glances, I became increasingly determined to break the stare which had become almost a magnetic connection, pulling us closer every moment. It was almost impossible to control my eyes as I scrutinized every peice of the stranger.

First, his hair. It was grey and sloppy, but if I focussed my eyes just right, fixating on it, I could see that it was brown. It was a smooth, chestnut brown. And it was well-combed. It was youthful and healthy. And his beard, too, was not that of a beggar but of a respectable businessman.

His eyes. They weren’t the faded grey I thought I saw but rather a forest green, soft like a lover’s but strong like a hero’s. They were eyes I recognized, eyes I had seen many times before. Eyes. They were my father’s eyes! His hair, it was my father’s hair! His beard grew on my father’s face, covering his distinct chin! Who was this stranger? He was my father!

Overwhelmed, I whispered beneath my breath and above my tears, “Daddy?”

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