I want to Scroll
through the gray hairs peppering my husband’s scalp
across the freckle that hovers above my son’s right eyebrow
through the lilting melody of my daughter’s laugh,
sometimes a drum, sometimes a glockenspiel.
Up over our walks to school
down into bedtime read alouds
back to that one time my son told a legitimately hilarious joke
and we all laughed and laughed
I’d double tap it all
every moment
damn the algorithm,
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All I care about was made for me:
crafted for me,
carried in my body,
nurtured,
sustained,
with more than enough memory,
random-access, though it may be.
Refresh.
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love this, Lindsey!