I have a scrapbook of memories tucked away inside of me,
I want so much to share them with you, so maybe you too will see.
Hidden amongst our memories are sometimes sadness and tears,
But, if you take a really close look, there are also happiness years.

My Daddy went off to fight the war, leaving the three of us all alone,
Mother was right there to protect us, until Daddy came safely home.
I was too young to remember, when he left, I was just a baby then,
Daddy told me much later, when I was older, where he had been.

I do remember tho, when I was only four, dancing with my Dad,
It was so much fun, for the two of us, what a wonderful time we had.
Moving very slowly, around the room, to the sound of the music’s beat,
With me being so little, I was placed very carefully on top of his feet.

On the page of my book when I was five, my Mother became a nurse,
I was so proud of her, in her nurses uniform, I thought that I might burst.
She stood so tall and looked so pretty all dressed in white,
Sometimes going to work, at the hospital, whether it was day or night.

The divorce that came when I was twelve was really hard to take,
How the children do suffer and the grownups are making a big mistake.
Saying things like, “The children will be fine, it is better this way.”
They never ask us though, what we have to say.

When I was fourteen, my Mother taught me how to drive a car,
I got into the driver’s seat but I thought we would not be going far.
How far that day took me, you would never be able to measure,
A special gift, of freedom, from my Mother which I will always treasure.

My own wedding day, what a blessing for my husband and for me,
I was finally marrying the man I had wished for at the tender age of three.
There he was, my brown eyed soul mate, standing by my side,
To continue with me, on our journey, no matter the turning of the tide.

Now that I am older and all of these years have passed by,
I look at my scrapbook of memories, sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry.
We will all survive growing up and each have our own memory book,
Whether you laugh or cry depends on where you open the page,
And at which memory ... you take a look.

© Brenda Sparkman
September 2004