I've never seen such old eyes. I've lived long enough to see the people I love grow old, and I've looked into their eyes, but never have I seen such eyes as his. Beneath the milky glaze of cataracts and the crepe-paper lids, his are the kind of old that see past my worn jumper and thinning curls. He sees me -- the dreamy girl perched on a windowsill reading her book and kicking her heels against the side of the house. If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear the frantic barking.