what eyes?

P1060647My father used to live around here when he was younger….before he moved away and had a family.

I think that my daughter took this picture on a trip out West that we took a couple of summers ago.

I don’t take too many pictures while I’m driving….so I think that it was my daughter who snapped this one.

I get so caught up in living my own life that I forget what other people have experienced.

My father was here….and he saw this.

My father didn’t have a very vocal “poetic soul”.

He wasn’t somebody who talked a lot about what beauty he’d seen in this world.

I remember at his memorial service that his minister said that she’d look up while delivering the lesson and see him sitting in the back row….tearing up a little while hearing the Gospel messageĀ one more time.

That was a pretty telling statement for all of us. We knew that part of him.

I have a feeling that he was moved by a lot….but kept quiet about it.

He was never one of those, “Let me tell you….” kind of guys.

He played the hand that he was dealt…but kept his cards close to his vest.

I don’t know where I’m going with this….I guess that maybe I’m feeling sentimental or something….nostalgic.

Maybe what I’m thinking is that by the time you start to understand someone and their experiences a little….they’re gone.

They’re gone and you don’t have a chance to tell them that maybe you can relate to what they went through a little more….because you’re going through some of the same things yourself.

That’s not the kind of conversation you’d probably have, though….even if you could.

It’s clearer what someone means to you when you can’t tell them.

It’s safer somehow when you can keep it all to yourself….and play your own cards close to your own vest.

There is so much beauty out in the world.

Some might think that the world is going to Hell….and maybe if you looked closely enough with the wrong eyes, that may be true.

My father looked out on this beauty….beauty like these hills in this picture….eyes shaded by his hat….and remembered what it was to be here…and know that the world was pretty good.

Sometimes, it’s enough just to “know”.

I guess that you don’t need to talk about everything.


About Peter Rorvig

I'm a non-practicing artist, a mailman, a husband, a father...not listed in order of importance. I believe that things can always get better....and that things are usually better than we think.

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