My Own Watchful Eye

MY OWN WATCHFUL EYE

 My daughter Sarah’s boyfriend Willy hung the picture of me that Chuck kept on his refrigerator. I look rather fierce. I’ve never seen myself like this. Did Chuck take the picture? He must have. It was there for years. He even took it with him when he moved to a larger house with a spectacular view.  It was among a few things I took after he died. Willy hung it up just below the ceiling, in the room where I spend my days. From that vantage point, she can see the whole room.  I can see myself looking at myself drinking wine in the afternoon, but it doesn’t stop me from finishing the glass. Fortunately, the room is filled with objects my eyes are drawn to, and they rarely drift up to Chuck’s photo of me. When they do, I wonder why this picture, where I look so severe. Or something else I can’t name. Intense, maybe. He must have had a reason, I can’t think what it was.  What’s my reason? It’s a face that wants me to be my best self. Demands that I be my best self. She has opinions. Hello, stranger.