Magically beautiful pictures of my kids
and their kids as babies fill my eyes
until they clash with the grown up
images existing in my mind.

Unrealistically, I wish they had escaped
time’s ravaging years and would all have
remained a little innocent child, so none
would have aged enough to become adult.

To see the boys grown with hairy
faces and muscles bigger than
mine shatters any thoughts that
they remain the babies I remember.

To see the girls with kids of their
own, and their kids now grown
into shapely women makes me
feel like I have

coffee grinds in my coffee,
gravel in my veins, and razor
blades cutting my heart when
one of those once little kids

shows that they inherited some
evil genes that family members,
now dead, have passed on down
to them.

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