Dust covered pages of a forgotten memory,
Of a childhood that was once a joy,
We don’t remember much, but we can touch
The ages and fill our mind with that little boy,
We’d hoped they’d understood, but never
Could we use them as our crutch as our
Saviors,
We don’t recall the lips, the nose, the eyes,
We can’t reminisce of the laugh, the cry,
But we can remember the loss, the hope
And how we tried,
And we can enter our minds and provoke
His name and that little boy that we,
Ourselves designed.
By Ella English
