My Father's Eyes

Last night I had an idea for a story. The text below is the introduction. Please let me know what you think...

As I walked in to the hospital room and saw my father resting on the bed, I was so overwhelmed by the range of emotions flooding my conscience that I suffered a brief instant of disorientation. I looked at my dad, his gaunt body ravaged by illness, and I barely recognized him. This shadow of a man who occupied the bed in front of me was a stark contrast to the giant who gently yet firmly guided me through my formative years, the father who wistfully stood in the doorway of my childhood home when it was time for me to spread my wings and explore the world as an adult. Seeing that he was semi-conscious, I choked back my feelings, put on a brave face, took his hand in my own, and sat on the edge of the bed, smiling at him. I couldn’t escape the irony of the situation, as I recalled the countless times he had quietly sat on the edge of my bed and comforted me when I was ill as a child. But that was a long time ago.

Somewhere along the line, dad and I had grown apart. I still loved the man, and knew he loved me. But I moved far away, became absorbed in day-to-day life, and we slowly drifted our separate ways. Initially, I thought of him all the time and called him frequently. As time progressed though, our contact became less and less frequent, and our conversations became shorter and more superficial. Eventually, we settled in to a routine where I’d call him on special occasions, and we’d end up talking about the weather. Now, I realize that I still love the man, but I no longer know him, and seeing him rolling in and out of consciousness drove home the realization that I may never again have the chance to become reacquainted with him.