His eyes

He smiled but it didn't seem to touch his eyes. 

And it made me so angry. So completely angry that I  wanted to punch him. Square in the jaw. Just make him angry, or sad or happy or something. This insufferable, beautiful brown haired bastard, who was so full of small notes scrawled in flowing letters, botched omelettes burned on one side, bagged groceries that seemed to never hold milk. This person. This husband. Did not belong to me.  

He belonged to screams that echoed on hard beat ground. To bullets that whistled a dying tune. To small bruises and little hurts. Then bigger bruises and larger hurts. To fears and fallen friends, enemies and evils. He belonged to these invisible things. 

We sat in silence. Looking up I saw blue eyes. Empty eyes. 

I held his hand across the expanse of the kitchen table. A soft stroke across roughened calluses. 

I would start with his hands. Give them something to hold. Something growing, something living, of the earth. 

Then his feet. Wrap them in warm socks and take them on long walks. On hikes maybe, where problems became mountains, and then stones. 

Last, his eyes. 

I could not fill his eyes or even shield them. I could not dim the brightness of grocery lights or hide the daily reports of violence and fighting that appeared on our television. 

For his eyes, I could only offer my own. 

 "Honey? How was your job interview the other day? You wore that navy blue blouse didn't you?", he said, breaking the silence. 

"Yes, I did. You know that outfit has gotten me every job since my  freshman year of college", I said, smiling with eyes that tried to understand, to forgive, and desperately, to see.