Generations are connected through bloodlines,
But never deeply through knowledge.
A look into the past,
Is a view of the world through a different lens.
Years before I was born,
My mother was a child.
A surreal concept.
My great grandfather holds his granddaughter lovingly,
She sits;
Quietly resting on his knee,
A thumb nostalgically placed between her lips.
A childhood treasure lingers beside them,
Lying on a malnourished plot of grass.
Staked firmly into the ground behind them,
A barrier for a house garden exists.
The man crouches low to the ground,
Balancing the child one knee.
He wears trousers and a white coat.
Looking glass rests in front of worn eyes,
A cap rests on a balding head.
The child perched on his knee is dressed similarly,
Clothed in a coat and hood to shield her from the cool winter’s air.
As a reflex,
One cannot help but stare;
For there is a building looming behind the figures.
This building,
This home,
Belongs to the father of the child.
Though the weathered shelter appears insignificant,
It contains many memories.
This home serves a purpose;
To never expose the past.
Only through photographs,
Can I develop an understanding of its rich history.
The house that protects the child,
and the child as well,
are subject to envy.
My envy.
Both have witnessed amazing adventures,
And defeated impossible feats.
I,
In my feeble childhood,
Only focused on simple things.
I,
Simply cannot remember.
Not a document exists,
That can draw out my past,
From the depths of my mind.
My past has been shattered,
Forever lost,
In memories forever locked away.