My father’s eyes hold the stories of the ages. They hold innocence and knowledge. They hold the sky. They hold the sea. They hold the rain. They hold laughter and tears the color of water. They hold rivers and lakes and dusty trails beneath tall pine trees pungent with sap. They hold books read by campfires and lamplight. They hold his whistle and his jaunty walk, as well as his embarrassment and his slow shuffling gait – every step measured for balance. They hold hope for moments of quiet conversation. In my father’s eyes, the stories are real.
Tyrean Martinson is a writer, teacher, daydreamer, believer who lives in the Pacific Northwest (near Seattle).