Watching

My father’s face was usually
obscured by a camera
clutched in his palm
pressed to the hollow around his eye

He saw the world as a photograph
waiting to be taken
A film to capture
and replay at will.

He recorded us eating and sleeping,
Mouths open. Slowly waking.
He recorded us getting into the car
and walking down the street.
gossiping and arguing
Throwing tantrums and laughing

We scowled at the camera, covered our faces
Demanded he delete swaths of film, refused
To watch on the living room tv, delivered
Lectures on our rights to privacy, extracted
Oaths never to show them to anyone else.

When he died, we watched him
Leave the hotel, disappearing
Through the glass doors, appearing
once more in the window as he passed.
He did not turn his gaze to the
security camera perched high in the lobby.

He did not know we would be watching.