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


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