My wife and I have two children. As I get older, I miss them more and more.
I see them often, but I miss them as they were when they were small.
The ghost of every happy memory haunts my mind.
I have heard no one speak of this, but I can only assume it’s common. Why would a parent cling to things that remind us of the small ones that made our lives so special?
Then these two young men appear in my home. They bear a strange resemblance to those rambunctious little ones I miss. Looking at them, I think but they can’t be the same boys. They are taller; heavier. Then I see the hair on their faces, the way they stand, broad shoulders — No, these are men.
Where are the boys I used to carry on my back?
Then they laugh, and in their smiles I see the boys whose pictures hang on our walls. I feel at peace with the ghosts, at least for a short while.