Cameras,

flashing

blinking.

I never liked

pictures

of others

of nature

of myself.

But Mom sets up the camera

in our kitchen,

flashing

blinking,

and says

that it was for my grandpa

to see me

and to see us.

I didn't understand.

I hated cameras,

after all.

But I let it stand there anyways,

flashing

blinking,

and I wondered if,

somehow,

my grandpa was watching.

I didn't understand.

I hated being watched,

after all.

But Mom's words

are final.

The camera stays

on its little platform

above the fireplace,

and I try to avoid

being seen

being watched

as much as I could.

*****

The news come suddenly,

just a few days

before my grandpa's

eighty-third birthday.

I wake up that morning,

refreshed

cheerful

ready for the start

of a new week.

But my spirits crash down

suddenly

unexpectedly

when Mom walks

into my room,

head lowered

hair messy.

She sits down

on my bed.

I cannot see her face

but I glimpse

something fall,

shimmering

glimmering

onto the blankets,

flashing golden

under the rays

of morning sunlight.

I reach forward

and hug her.

I feel sobs wrack her frame

as we embrace,

hold each other close.

I am not a good granddaughter,

but at least

I try to be

a good daughter.