This picture hangs over my mother's dresser. She knits at the breakfast table or in restaurants, never by the bed of a sleeping child. If we are sick, our father comes up to tell us scary tales about the bogeyman in the attic or to speculate whose eyes we are seeing on the wall. Our mother swoops in with a tray of food, scofflingly dismissing the very idea of bogeymen. We point out the mysterious eyes on the wall and she briskly pulls up the shade. The eyes vanish.
