Her Father's Eyes, My Father's Sight

My little girl has her father's beautiful blue eyes. They're huge and deep and I can get sucked in to their gaze, either one of them. But she has my own father's eyesight.

My dad has always been able to see stuff I can't on the side of the road. Owls, eagles, deer, raccoons, cranes -- you name it, he points, I see nothing unless it's moving. And he's the one driving. 

"Look, Mommy, is that a boy deer or a girl deer?" she asked last night as we drove to the library. I tried to look and yet not rear-end the car in front of me. I saw nothing. 

"Um, did it have antlers?"

"No."

"Then it's probably a girl."

I focused on the road. 

"What's this time called again? Not dawn?"

"Dusk. Dusk is the time between when the sun sets and when it actually gets dark. Deer love dusk."

"Yeah, look -- there are three more."

I turned. I saw nothing. Except maybe my father.