by Tamara Passey
I tried to scrapbook for a while. I really did. I wasn't terrible at it. I could put together a page and the pictures looked pretty good. But I admit, rather nervously, that I didn't like it as much as thought I would. Or at least as much as some other friends did. So I've resorted to putting pictures in albums with protective covers and think that maybe one day either of my daughters might like to scrapbook - wouldn't that be nice? However, I still like to capture moments and record them if I can. I just have a writer's brain and not a photographer's brain. So my snapshots are poems. Fragments of moments I don't want to forget. Like the one I'm including at the end of this post. It may not mean much to anyone else, but at least I can show my daughter I was paying attention along the way. Are any of you good journalers? Scrapbookers? How much do you document of your children's lives?
We sat on the lattice-back patio chair
You and I
To watch a storm
Because in the desert, rain is a spectator sport
Water spattered on the rocks
You sang the alphabet song
Somewhere around H-I-J-K
The thunder clapped directly above our heads
Like you had the fast-moving gray clouds for an audience
Your eyebrows snapped up like rubber bands
“What was that?” Your shock sent up a hand to cover your mouth.
“Thunder.” I explain.
You still scanned the yard and the soggy grass
Looking for a culprit
A gust of wind pushed the rain horizontal
And I knew our moment on the edge of the storm was over.
You clung to me with your four-year-old arms and legs as we scrambled inside.
We stood behind the glass door,
Watched our dusty patio chair get drenched