I just dropped some Cheerios on the floor,
and I flashed back to a time when they were yours,
falling from your high chair, spilling from your bowl,
and you, happy faced, cherishing them like gold.
Sitting in just a diaper, carefully using your little fingers,
you put them one-by-one into your two-toothed mouth.
You slobbered and grinned, the memory still lingers,
you seemed to savor the flavor, but then spat them out.
And there they were, on the tray, some in your hair,
some inside your diaper (not sure how they got there),
you laughed as I cleaned you, pausing to tickle your feet,
said "no" so seriously when I asked if you needed more to eat.
Then, off to the races the moment you hit the ground,
and I chasing after, yelling for you to slow down;
you laughing hysterically, never turning around.
I now understand, it was a metaphor for the rest of our lives,
and soon you both will be wanting husbands and wives,
and I will move ever more slowly as you two are fruitful and multiply.
Who would believe? All of that from a bowl of breakfast cereal?
Memories so fleeting, generating emotions sublime and ethereal.
I wonder and marvel at this thing we call "time,"
how it causes children to age at near the speed of light.
How, today, I am the one digesting memories and dropping food on the floor.