When I have a spare moment, I sometimes
find a quiet corner of the house
by the sun and away from the constant
hum of machines and the blaring
light of digital appliances.
In my memory I flip through the forty-one
pages of the previous years,
weighed down with layered emotion.
They are thin, three hundred and sixty five
words each, and full of forgotten things.
Were it real,
the ink on the yellowed paper would paint a picture
with brighter words than any pixels.
I sigh. My children will never know the world
before the bright screens and machines.
The stale tang of perfume from that first dance saturates
my nose’s recollections. I close my eyes,
the words memorized and the images bittersweet.
I see his hair, black like obsidian, a piece
of history that shone under hot lights.
Vibrations from his laugh tickle me now,
opening my eyes and capturing a smile.
His hair has dulled, with rivulets of grey
but he is still my essence even though
years have squished a frenzy of words between us.
I flip through the pages of thought with no real place.
Memories that carry the nostalgia
of sticky messes made by little hands stop me.
Their smiles are the same now,
though wider and not just for me.
In a quiet moment with my reminiscences,
I can forget how the world has changed.
Soon, I must replace the membraned pages
with the jarring glare of tablets
and the monotonous game of power with technology.
But, for this stolen second the book seems real;
The imagined slow turning of the pages a reprieve
from swiping up and down.
I follow the words into faded images,
sketched with verbs and nouns.
At page forty-one, the memories turn
into present moments. My eyes open
and I hold onto the idea tenderly.
I should teach my children that memories
are substantial and create the greatest book.