My Father's Eye
by Eleni Vakalo
My Father had a glass eye
On Sundays when he stayed home he took out of his pockets other eyes and polished them
with the edge of his sleeve and called my mother to choose. My mother laughed.
In the mornings my father was happy. He played with his eye in his palm before he put it on
and declared it was a good eye. But I didn't want to believe it.
I threw a dark shawl over my shoulders pretending I was too old to watch what was going on.
In the end I caught him once weeping. There was no difference from a real eye.
is not to be read
by those who don't love me
who don't know me
if they don't believe
After the story of my father I suspected even those who had real eyes.