On my eleventh birthday Dad gave me this book - The Eyes of the Killer Robot. Inside the peach cover was gothic baseball, malevolent wizardry, small breath horror, and magic, cut with 1950s science.
In the book a madman learns how to extract our eyes and uses them to power an evil golem ace.
This morning, twentyseven years later, in the pre-Christmas rain that pools black in the brick I suddenly wondered if Dad with his incurable glaucoma his eye drops and surgeries, realized he'd given me a book about the fears of stolen eyesight.
And the son came to know what the father knew: the terrible softness of a trembling eye under the blooming steel of the speculum.