My Father's Eyes

[shosen]

My family has had this farm fer as long as humans have been in the Highlands. Least, that’s what my grandpa always said, and I’ll believe whether it’s true or not. The land has fed and provided fer us all that time, and in return we keep it well and never ask more’n it’ll give.

It’s a labour of love, and it works the way that love should. We give our all ta the fields, and they give their all back ta us. With that sort of support, neither of us ever fail. Doesn’t always work that way, though.

Hearts can mislead ya, and ya usually don’t see 'em leadin’ ya astray. Fix on someone more’n willin’ ta take all ya’ll give, all ya got, but someone who won’t ever give much, if anythin’, in return. Maybe they do it on purpose, maybe they just can’t do otherwise, but it don’t matter. In the end, it’s weeds growin’ in the fields.

And it don’t matter if ya see it eventually, ‘cause it’s usually too late. There’s too much damage done, or it’ll do even more ta pull it all up. Ya look around one day, and realise that all your love was fer nothin’. The fields are dead.