Poem | Parnika Garg
The teacups still remember little hands,
Their porcelain lips yearning for pretend;
The swing set creaks in weather-worn commands,
Where phantom children push against the wind.
The building blocks have lost their architect,
Their wooden faces smooth from years unused;
The picture books, their stories now neglect
To spin their tales of dragons, long diffused.
The closet holds a space between the coats
Where once a fortress stood against the dark;
The stairs still count the echo-running notes
Of feet that raced to leave their lasting mark.
Each corner guards its treasury of time:
A fingerprint, a scratch, a crayon line;
The rooms hold breath like unfinished rhyme,
Waiting for small voices, yours and mine.
The cookie jar still hopes for midnight raids,
Its lid sits ready for a careful lift;
While board games sleep like tired parades,
Their pieces scattered in time's silent drift.
We've grown too tall for hiding spots of old,
Too wise for worlds that magic wands could forge;
Yet sometimes when the evening grows cold,
These empty spaces help us to disgorge
The children that we were, and somehow are,
Still running through the halls of memory—
Like music boxes wound up from afar,
Playing childhood's lost symphony.