are
thirty-five years
old.
ancient,
lost but now found
in a box
in the cellar.
heir looms
no different than
the dead sea scrolls.
we were young then.
the child
just born.
there he is in the tub,
pink and as happy
as a store-bought doll,
on the swing,
in his crib
beneath the mobile
that swirls
and plays a nursery
song.
it's almost imaginary,
a fairytale
of some sorts,
how could we ever have
been so young.
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