There isn’t much to write about,
not much recalled, now brief glimpses
like aged photographs, black and white
or color but so time faded they bleed
now into sepia, fragments, his face here
hers never appearing as if she, not satisfied
with how she looked, purged my memory.
It may be a factor of age, but there are
other contemporaneous moments still
in clear definition, colors easily discernible.
Perhaps this is how advancing age
treats childhood, the calendar disdaining
retrospection as time wasted, better spent
on new, never clearly defined pursuits.
And there is no solace in the knowledge
that my own sons will soon enough see
the younger me, the me of their early
childhood as those same vague, faded
images for they will learn that youth is
remembered only by the one who lived it.