MEMORIES ON THE WALL

~~~~~

Your pictures don't have all the memories
Some of them are on my skin lined and stained
by a dozen crayons wielded by hands
Who are yet to learn their ABCs.
A doorframe upstairs would have summaries
Of years of growing the children have had
Counted by inches, a hue for each child
'til colors and names crowdedย in one space.

How you bewailed the mess the kids made
On this house that you had no time to mend
Lost as you were in the child rearing years
Now fading into years of emptiness.
Now I am clean, no other eyes need to know
The moments you can't bring to where you'll go.

~~~~~

Written for Mish's Dverse Poetics Prompt - If Walls Could Talk  which I did not get to finish on time to link up with the prompt, but just in time to join the Open Link Night. 

Thanks for dropping by. :-)I am sorry I am slow with catching up with you.  Lately, I get woozy when I look for long periods on my monitor, and more so when I scroll up and down. I will try to visit you all, albeit slowly.
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17 comments

  1. I love how the walls themselves comment on all the marks left by small children and a too tired parent that couldn’t clean them. I grew up with a similar growth chart for us kids on the inside of our bedroom closet door frame. Love these memories, Imelda. Don’t worry yourself about commenting back to me if you’re too woozy…take care of yourself. xo

    • Thanks, Gayle, for dropping by, the feedback, and the understanding. ๐Ÿ™‚ I wonder what stories the next generations of owners will get from the memories we leave on the walls.

  2. Yes, those marks and colors on the walls – they have a lot of stories to share about children growing up. But these years pass quickly you know and suddenly the kids are grown up and we can’t turn back the clock ~ Take care Imelda ~

  3. Well I am even slower, Imelda…so no worries. Thanks so much for linking this up. It resonates deeply with me, as I look at my own home, the updating never done while busy with my kids and the door frame with my two son’s measurements. A tender, nostalgic poem. Take care.

  4. I recognize the situation you describe very well. My children are still at home, but they are no longer using the walls as sketching pads. We do still occasionally mark the height of my younger son on the side of the desk/bookcase in my room because he hasn’t quite finished growing. His and his brother’s most recent lines are both now higher than the faded grey one that represents me

    • I bet they celebrated the day they got ‘officially’ taller than you. My first born always measures his height against me and looks forward to the day he gets taller than me. It’s not truly a tall order but it is still a milestone to get to. ๐Ÿ™‚ ๐Ÿ˜€

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