He was here, on the bed in front of me. He looked so peaceful. His eyes were closed so I couldn’t see his beautiful blue eyes. People used to say that I have his eyes but I always thought that his were prettier. I remember once, when I was 8, he took us, mom and me, to the most beautiful place in the whole world. I remember that the ride was really long but it was totally worth it. I remember, when we arrived neither mom nor I could say anything. We were too busy admiring the beauty of the place. It was a wood house in the mountains with a wonderful view on a perfectly blue lake. On the house, big black letter were spelling the words “ Riviere Blue ”. We could see the reflection of the sunset on the water. It was a work of art. Every single tree was in the right place. In fact, every single thing was in the right place which made it perfect. We stayed there for a week, the best week of my life. One day I realized that his eyes were the exact same color as the water of the lake. Since then, his eyes were riviera blue for me. The same closed eyes in front of me. The same eyes that I will never see again. The eyes of my father. The eyes of my dead father.