Through His Eyes

It has been two months since Vic passed, yet the grief remains sharp, raw, and unyielding. I cry each day - sometimes quietly, sometimes like a flood - when I think of him, when I look back at photos from this time last year, or when I revisit the words I’ve poured into my journal.

One of my greatest regrets is not taking more photos of him earlier this year, during our February outings. I thought we would have more time, that there would always be another moment to capture. But now those few pictures feel like fragile treasures, too few for the weight of what they must hold.

Kenzo, though, reminds me that memory is not kept only in photos. He holds his dad in ways that I cannot. He stretches out his hand when he runs, as if Vic is still there, holding it from heaven. He smiles when he remembers the little things - the way his dad ordered chicken feet at yum cha, the way they laughed over simple routines.

Through Kenzo’s eyes, I see that grief is not only about absence, but about presence reshaped. My tears may fall for what is gone, but his gestures remind me that Vic still lingers - in motion, in memory, in the love that continues step after step, day after day.

And so, together, Kenzo and I carry him forward.