I remember the first time I asked what my father was like. I would have only been five at the time. Mother didn’t respond right away. She just looked at me, then back to the ocean. Everyone always said I looked so much like him.

“He was good.” Her words cut into the bitter cold. “Tired and angry at the world, but good nonetheless. He loved the sky and the sea, they were like old friends. He knew everything there was, and insisted they knew the same about him.”

“Where is he now?”

Mother looked down, bending forward and pressing the centre of my forehead with her callused thumb,
“You have his eyes. Use them.”

But all I could see was the ever-expanding cosmos and the sea.