short story

Inside The Frame

Looking at him sit there you would have thought he was actually communicating with that photograph. The gentle way he held the frame, the ever-so deep gaze straight into the eyes of his father, they all pointed to the fact that this boy was truly gone away: so deeply drawn into his memories that he simply was no longer here. I almost envied him just for being able to glide straight out of reality and into the past, something I would probably never be able to do. And I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was thinking about, and for that matter I didn’t even care. I was just so taken aback by his expression; it was almost like he was, well, actually with his father.
The photograph was in a plain, golden frame. I knew it couldn’t have mattered less to him whether it was encased in a fancy decorative frame with rubies and other precious gems or if it was torn apart with no frame at all. The frame wasn’t what mattered to him. It was the feelings associated with the photo inside it. Every single time he saw that grin on his fathers face, it gave him that feeling back. That precise mix of honor and respect, of sadness and loss, of unending love and an undying spirit. This memory wasn’t something getting old. It wasn’t something that was partially gone or eventually going to be forgotten. Sure, it wasn’t tangible, but the best things in life never are. Looking at this boy I knew his father would live on forever inside his mind, helping him through his life with the aid of a developed photo.
Then he turned his head to his right slowly, calmly. Only to look at what seemed, to me, like nothing. Or what I thought was nothing, at least. But his eyes were focused: it was like he was making eye contact with something. Someone?  Not focused, satisfied. Although with him looking at nothing, I don’t see what he could be so satisfied with. I just couldn’t adopt the right adjective to describe those eyes. Wondering eyes? Maybe even longing? Then I saw the glint. That sparkle, that shine in his eyes that told me that the boy I was watching wasn’t looking at nothing. And for that one moment, I knew what he was looking at. Right then I could see just what he was looking at, too. His father was looking him straight in the eye, giving him exactly what he needed. That sense of still being there, with him, even after he'd gone away. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and by the time I started to, his father was already gone.
The boy was still staring into the same space as before, and I had finally come up with an adjective to directly describe this boy’s eyes. They were remembering eyes. Remembering eyes that were still maintaining eye contact with the same person that I now failed to see.
Well, I guess that memory meant more to him than me.