Narration by the talented and kind Becky Hayward. Check her out if you enjoy her voice over.

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I sit upon a couch in this small room,
The shower runs; the screen is dark and still.
Across the wall where shades of azure bloom,
The frames are hung with scenes of joy and thrill.
A boy of three is playing with his toys,
He visits places, runs, and jumps, and plays;
The frozen echoes of a young child’s joys,
Preserved within a static, glossy haze.

He crawls across the book upon my lap,
In bright pajamas, bold in red and blue.
He rests his head to take a quiet nap,
Against my chest, where all the world is true.
The scent of dinner lingers in the air,
With soap and laundry, warm and soft and sweet.
While orange light begins to pool and flare,
In golden circles at our tired feet.

Behind my back, the table holds its weight,
Of letters sealed and work I should have done.
My phone begins to buzz and vibrate late,
A silent plea for tasks I ought to run.
We open up the book to painted men,
I read the words while he recounts his part;
He finds the tiny details once again,
And shares the hidden visions of his heart.

For me, the view is different from his own,
I see him in the park with all his friends.
I watch the moments where he’s lived and grown,
Within the frames where every story ends.
I flip the page and read the words aloud,
And think of those who say I am never here;
The voices of the ghosts and of the crowd,
Who claim my absence makes me disappear.

The shower taps, the grinding cars go by,
The ticking clock counts out the passing day.
Tick-tock, it says, as seconds start to fly,
While he describes his world in every way.
His fingers, small and soft, assist the turn,
With giggles, snuggles, tickles, and a grin.
From memory, the words he’s come to learn,
Are spoken from the glowing soul within.

In red and blue, his legs have grown too long,
He points with such precision at the view.
He’s changing like the verses of a song,
And frame by frame, the boy becomes the new.
The orange light begins to fade and die,
I close the book and hold him to my chest.
A heavy presence makes me start to sigh,
A weight of soul that will not let me rest.

I look upon the wall at every frame,
The moments lost to time and far away.
I am not there to claim a face or name,
In all the pictures that the walls display.
The business calls, a world demanding more,
I think it’s time to stop my answering;
To leave the ghosts outside the front door,
And keep the memory only now can bring.

Thanks for reading.

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