Soren at 8 Months

Till now October 2009 you were a picture.
Many pictures sent through cyberspace.
1917 myself at 8 months. Only box cameras.
Go see one in a museum.

You, mommy, daddy, and the car seat bed
Lit up this sleepy old house
With the burning glow of new life.

William Shakespeare 1475. (The Bard)
Soren, there's a name to remember
Long before others.
He defined who we humans are.
He said, “All the men women merely players.”
Like on the stage.
“At first the infant (thats you)
Mewling and puking in the nurses’ arms.”
No nurses. Just Mama Amrita.

Until you visited, all I heard of Soren was “cute.”
Okay, I can give you that, if you want it?
Your wonderment at the unfolding world before your eyes.
This is not cute.

A reminder to look anew at the magic of the world.
A remarkable little rainbow light on the ceiling
Or the pussycat’s ears revealing its veins.
Great-grandpa’s mustache and ah, yes, his guitar.
Little fingers gripped the strings,
As if hearing the songs we sing.

Old childhood memories. Don’t know if they changed?
“Old Bangum” wild boar hunting would go.
You have to guess what they made of his hide?
Yeh, a nice saddle. “How do you think I begin in the world?
Got me a sow and several other things.”
“Go tell Aunt Rhody her old grey goose is dead.
Died standing on her head.”

Honestly now. What’s this supposed to do for your synapses?
And oh, I forgot, the itsey bitsey spider
Went up and down the water spout. You puzzled?
Soren, you and I.

Remember the Bard? Remember you mewling?
Here’s the old man on the stage of life.
“Turning again toward childish treble pipes.”
Me and you could be in the same place.
You in your first childhood, me in my second.
That makes us brothers under the skin. No?

Thanks most thoughtful Soren.
Thanks Mommy and Daddy. Do come again.

Kate N.H.W.Y.