For a moment, though, I saw a pool of tears.
Once the problem was solved, though, I saw the potential instantly.
In the final two bars, though, I saw a low, solitary C for the harp, which, like the best mysteries, could be read any number of ways.
For a few seconds, though, I saw them clearly — the deliberately rumpled hair of the boys and the neat, tidy composure of the girls in opposition.
A week later, though, I saw a television report on Niederzimmern, a German village where citizens can sponsor pothole repairs after this year's especially cold winter.
The moment I picked up Big Baby, though, I saw something as unwelcome as a skunk at a garden party.
For a few seconds, though, I saw them clearly the deliberately rumpled hair of the boys and the neat, tidy composure of the girls in opposition.
A few minutes later, though, I saw her sitting happily in the shade, and the police sergeant hurrying back to her with a mango sorbet.
A few months ago, though, I saw Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington's documentary, "Restrepo," and, for the first time in ages, I thought about what the word really means.
Not long ago, though, I saw a video of myself aged 18, and I was horrified: partly at how ridiculous I seemed, but also at how much I have run away from myself since.
When I opened the door on that recent visit, though, I saw a dark-haired boy — my 6-year-old son, Seth — who by all appearances felt only affection for my father.
