buy a small audio recorder

today, i thought a good while about how strange childhood is.
not necessarily how strange MY childhood was, but
how strange childhood is in general.
you know, how it comes and goes, and whatnot.

and how it can only be felt once,
from a first person view,
by the very child that's doing the hooding.

and wasn't it strange?

childhood?

that this giant block of time,
the potent mold that forms our personalities and our values,
eventually just disappears.

and if you try and dig for it,
all you'll muster up are some artifacts and pictures
that hardly summarize a drop
let alone an entire waterfall.

who was that small person?
was that me?
i can barely remember what his voice sounded like.

i want to.

i do.

but i can't.

sometimes i can hear it in the middle of the night,
passing on a dark train, with a pitch black, steel furnace
pouring ashes and soot,
and fueled by a fire as soft as candlelight.

and just as the voice comes to me,
that empty train screams by,
and vanishes into the rain and wind,
and takes all my voices with it.

i want to remember my mother's voice, when i grow old.

i want it to be crystal clear in my mind.

and i want it to comfort me, when i die.

i must remember to record it
while i still can.