The binoculars belonged to my father, part of a package he gave me when he moved apartments. I can't imagine him using them, though he lived in a highrise and I remember the view. Not of the mountains, the park or of English Bay, but of buildings just like his.
My father liked people more than scenery, and strangers best. I can imagine him staring at those buildings, but not with his binoculars.
When I look through those binoculars today, as I rarely do, I think of him walking back from the market. A half-priced chicken, a sack of onions and a loaf of day-old bread.