Aged in the mileage of life
They place me in the comfortable chair in the corner.
Present but only as wallpaper on this Christmas day.
Out of the way, an observer of the vigor of their youth,
Safely beyond the chaos of bright wrapping paper flung in haste,
Included as a courtesy, left to my hot tea and memories of Christmas past.
My wistful eyes smile at their energy and excitement,
And I remember all that they have yet to learn.
Comfortably in the corner,
present but only as wallpaper, and I remember as I watch,
I remember;
I remember the joy of running breathlessly because I could
that blush when she made eye contact for the first time
the infectious laughter of my infant sons
your beckoning eyes in the darkened bedroom
I remember the first time I saw you as you stood in your nightshirt before the sun bright window.
my first handshake, when it meant something
cool baths on summer afternoon when it was too hot to play outside anymore.
the icy cold water of swimming in a full stock tank behind the old barn.
I remember the criminal intent of my sisters who were smarter than I was, and their clever plots.
the smell of fresh hay, and the bump of the hay wagon over a rough ground
the pain of remorse when I disappointed myself.
my first breathless kiss, and the taste of the breath mint on her lips.
I remember the heart melting moment of the first time I gazed into my child’s eyes.
the terror of the bullets and tracers in the night and watching my friend die.
the softness of an expensive towel.
the deafening experience of a hard rock concert.
I remember children laughing in the rain and old men laughing as they watched from the porch
my most memorible bowel movement
my first orgasm, and the Catholic guilt that followed because I was alone.
how sweet and tender is love
and the shadow of despair when I was unloved and deserved to be.
I remember as they scramble in pursuit through the discarded wrapping paper,
ensconced in the soft chair in the corner.
Present, but only as wallpaper
I remember— what they have yet to learn.
