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My dad gave me his eyes. This was when I was born, before I knew anything. I was in my teens when he told me. He stood in front of me and asked—quite nervously, I think, and understandably so, exposed to that gaze—"Well, what do you see?"

"I see myself," I said.

"Yeah," he muttered. "It was that way with me, too."

"Does that mean you've got my eyes, then?"

"Maybe," he said. He didn't seem to have considered it.

"What do you see?"

"A little of myself," he said. "And you. Mostly you. Almost endlessly you."

—Richard Lee