"Shells"
A
poem by Michael Estabrook
At the kitchen table in the morning alone having my
coffee waiting for my ride glancing up at the photos
on the wall of the children when they were little,
like the prehistoric caveman paintings in Lascaux, one
photo of me and the 3 of them at the picnic table at
the rented summer place down on the Cape, a father
with his 3 small children, and they are, we are,
looking over the myriad shells we collected that
morning on the pristine beach, I’m explaining to them
I imagine about the shells, how this one's from a clam
and this one’s from a snail and this one’s . . . well
I’m not sure about this one, 20 years ago seems like
someone else’s life, doesn’t feel like me in my own
picture with my own three small children sitting at
the picnic table at the rented summer place down on
the Cape. Or maybe I’m explaining to them how time
moves forward at a blistering pace whether we like it
or not.
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