The Children's Museum

This is an older poem, but it's one that means a lot to me.

           The Children’s Museum

My first Sunday as ex-husband-to-be
and every-other-weekend father,
I took my son and daughter
to the Children’s Museum.

We had fragile fun there: trying on
policemen’s hats and firemen’s jackets
too big for children, too small for me;
making giant bubbles that burst
sooner than we hoped; working levers
to lift weights larger than ourselves
while an inaudible clock ticked away.

Then came the strobe room where man-made lightning
pinned momentary shadows to phosphorescent walls,
My son kicking like a kung-fu star.
My daughter doing her best pirouette.
All three of us in mid-air holding hands.

Flash. Freeze. Fade. Flash. Freeze. Fade.
Until it was time for us to go.

Now my son the astronomer, following other stars,
is a something of a stranger
even in his mother’s house.
My daughter the ballerina has finally given up
her dancing dreams to face a future
without choreography. And for me,
the sun has become a manic strobe,
blinking by the days, the weeks, the years.

Flash. Freeze. Fade. Flash. Freeze. Fade.
Until it is time for us to go.