My grandmother keeps a book by her bed that’s worth more than gold, rich with souvenirs, from before I was even three years old.
The first page is dull from years of being thumbed through,
The once vibrant ink turned to a dusty blue.
It carries the memory of my first laughable phrase,
A quip I won’t forget, til the end of my days.
A toy pinscher tugged on his leash, panting hard,
As my grandmother and I watched from the yard.
Lost in introspection, we wait while they pass,
My chubby toddler fingers, pulling at the grass.
His head is so small, his leash must be tight!
Giggling, my grandma agreed I was right.
The book has been filled as my cousins have aged,
Priceless memories flowing from each page.
Chock full of love, that capsule of time,
Growing lacks reason, growing lacks rhyme.
I see us in my dreams, reading in a nook,
Tears in our eyes from that silly little book.
