Yet
I cling to those memories like a life raft and
Mourn
the days of trumpets and special music performances,
Neighborhood
playgrounds and decorating classrooms in August.
Now
my baritone voice has grown silent and my
Trumpet
has long-since been sold.
Now
I take joy in the music of others and smile at the
Mobiles
hung in the classrooms of teachers bursting with infectious idealism.
Now
knowledge is my canvas, and words are my paint as
I
train others to see through the eyes of love and give voice to the silent.
Former
passions have been replaced by new ones, as I embrace the blessings of bygone
love
And
watch children become teenagers and college-goers become dedicated adults.
I
do not mourn their lost childhood, but cherish my new role as watcher and
guardian.
Now
I see the path that is before me; looking back does no good, but only
Reminds
me of broken twigs and failures I left in the path for others to clean up.
I
cannot change the past, nor is it prudent to dream of time traveling
Machines
and unconscious what-ifs
Because
the past, like a classic novel, has already been written.
The
now is all that remains, even as I look toward some imagined future of eternal
reward;
That
bright and shining city tempts me to rest in my past triumphs,
But
my only way is forward.
There
are still castles to explore and dragons to fight as I trek this mysterious
journey,
Holding
on to the past as a quiver of arrows to protect the precarious path ahead.
The
past is only a faint yet powerful memory that stubbornly holds us fast to nostalgia,
which
Satisfies
for a moment, but in the end rusts like a creaky gate.
Do
not mourn the immutable past, but embrace the now
As
you move forward in grace, dignity, and purpose.
