Only Remembering

You don’t like it
when I wax fondly about your childhood,
how cute you were,
how much fun we had
playing peek-a-boo,
chasing dragons and soap bubbles.
After all, you’re grown up now
with adult hair and curves
and deserve the respect
that three year olds don’t have.
Believe me, I know.
I get the same thing from
the generation that saw me grow up.
In their eyes, I’m still running around
in diapers
and that’s embarrassing for me, too,
since I have grey hair and too many pounds.

To say I miss who you were then
is to say I miss myself
as I rediscovered the world through your eyes.
I miss the depth the seasons and the yard
and clouds had then;
I miss the fresh dreams
when sorrow was a thing unknown;
I miss when “what’s for supper”
was exciting.

That’s still going on,
the rediscovery,
still holds us together,
it’s just a bit different now
and it’s difficult to be
the same kind of goofy
we used to be.

It’s OK,
you’ll understand
when your children are the age
you are now,
and you won’t mind looking through
the picture book of memory.