Theirs are the young faces brightened
By the garish blue-light of their toys
They look up to cast wary, beleaguered eyes at us
“What do we know?”
We have left the living rooms to them for their disposal
Seated on comfortable sofas and chairs – our gifts for their retreat
We huddle in kitchens preparing healthy meals
For children who are no longer
And will have nothing to eat
As they rewrite their lives in 140 characters or less
Living on likes and bytes
No thought given to the time-capsule in the attic
The one that holds the baby clothes and tangible
Photographs of all their ‘firsts.’
And the trunk jammed packed with sheet
Music for instruments
They’ve forgotten how to play
Maybe they’ll want to explore one day
Like they used to
Sneak into the attic and see the Polaroids –
The young, beautiful couple beaming at their baby
“Who are they?”
They are the originators of your story
The authors who’ve shared the same pen
Picking up when one partner drifts off
Crawling away to heal the cuts
To hearts now cowering in kitchens
Licking the sweet spoons of memory
Filed under: adolescence, children, Family, growing up, observations Tagged: children, computers, family, memories, parenting, tweets
