teiichi
miki, when visiting her grandma and grandpa
Sometimes I imagine that being a parent must require a kind of wide birdlike field of view, your eyes sweeping in as much of the world as possible so as to be able to watch out for danger, loss, heartache on the horizon.
Then sometimes it seems as if what you must want is tunnel vision, the corners of your sight melting into dark pools of nothingness and the height of everything curving in towards the center of your gaze until only your child remains in sharp relief.
But what if all you saw were ever bathed in the sepia tones of premature nostalgia, everything catching at your heart like a memory—how much bigger she is already, how quickly she will fly, how soon—what then? How could you bear to look at all?
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