My body tingled with the need for whatever comfort (my parents) might be able to offer, yet I found I couldn't speak or allow myself to draw their attention.

If something in her childhood had led her to dash off so many shades of bad weather, then what would we do when we grew up?

The window offered an antidote: the comforting view of a quiet street.  I reached out to hold this sight but instead touched glass, felt its faint chill.  I pressed harder at the window.  If something so solid could be so easy to see through, I thought, then why weren't people the same way, open to any search, available to anyone's curiosity?

Alone in my room, I could settle so easily into the solace of things and stare at them for hours.

(I) wondered how my father could have such eyes and be so blind.  I hated to consider it, but maybe he had no seeing left for us.