Small and piercing,
colors alluring,
fluttering freely across the sky;
no one dares to stop the butterfly.
It lands on a flower, or maybe a child
and gives him a glow of a smile

Just a few yesterday’s ago,
how many; the number grows;
This bright butterfly was hidden and distant,
the idea seemingly non-existent.
Not always so colorful, not always so stunning;
only in the middle of becoming

Before it has a chance to shine
no one will give it the time;
The caterpillar is kicked aside,
its beauty is denied.
The same child cries out in disgust,
the promise of glamor is forgotten, the future isn’t enough;
Physical details are all that seem to matter
and anything else becomes scattered
 

We all have different memories,
with people, smells, and sights.
And words will do no justice
so something like this happens instead;
the harder we try to remember
the more that we’ll forget.

No matter how much detail,
no matter how many adjectives,
no matter how breathtaking the photograph,
nothing will capture
this moment again;

Colors and voices
will melt into one;
the picture won’t be accurate,
the memory forgotten

and so we create replacements,
replacements with a buzz of meaning.
Laughter and beauty
rise up again;
The same record on repeat;
our emotions, our voices, and our lyrics

weaved into broken memories.
Repeat and repeat
until we are nothing but
shells of memories.

At the end of each school year we save the posts from the prior class, creating a kind of yearbook and a reference  that allows students and families to look back over prior years.

Dear Parents or Guardians,

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