How strange to find myself alone in this playroom at night, its walls painted black by the moonless sky.
I stoop to collect cars, frozen in mid-play, these plastic trinkets and me cracked open by the hands of time.
I will grow older, withstand the crumbling of this house under my feet and the deepening furrow in my brow. I will endure the dull blade of my children’s vanishing youth.
With each new nick I scramble to patch the hole in our bubble, paste glossy photos and stick-figure drawings into baby books. As if I could restrain time with just tape and a piece of paper.
But this plastic garden that swells and shrinks and will one day lay fallow for good, holds more of us than the glut of memories in my closet.
Sweet dreams, little red fire truck asleep on your side.
Tonight, I will let you be.
Lisa Ferrazzano is a linguist, Italian instructor, and writer. Her work has appeared in Mothers Always Write, Her View from Home and Literary Mama. Lisa’s essays and poetry center around her favorite job of all times, being a mom.