The Constant Cameraman

On examining the polaroid remains

from my father’s old camera, I see his reflection caught in the mirror –

Proud as a sequoia, a one-eyed camera

firmly pointed at three smiling boys

Wearing deflated footballs as hats. I see

the same ever-present reflection in a photograph

of my mother’s long black hair as she looks

into the mirror

Cut to 25 years later –

I’m celebrating my birthday at home with

my parents. The stink of depression

thickens the air as it has for the past decade

or so. I blow out the candles awkwardly

as my father’s cracked, withered hands fumble

with the flashy newfangled smartphone

in an attempt to take a picture of his

youngest daughter on her 23rd birthday.

The Buddha says that impermanence is a basic

fact of existence. I shove that thought away as

I run back to my room and devour my cake. Written for NaPoWriMo. April 1st.