(Writer of the Month – Philo H.S.)
Here I sit,
gazing at the pages of a book
found in a dusty attic,
looking at what is supposedly my past.
but I remember very little
of any of these happenings
which are now nothing but paper.
I don’t remember riding on a carousel
at the annual summer festival.
I can’t recall ever sitting
on my grandfather’s lap
(who, by the way, has been buried
for the past forty years).
And I know for certain
that couldn’t have been me
splashing in the tub with my bottom
showing for the world to see.
It all seems so long ago
since I last received a kiss
while having chocolate cake smeared
across my face.
It just doesn’t seem as if I’ve aged
so much in so little time.
What is to become of me after I’m gone?
Will I be only a picture in the attic?