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Broken Record

My brother’s like a broken record.  He tells me about how we used to bike around the neighborhood pretending we were race car drivers, and how we’d gained multiple knee scrapes from turning the curb too fast. He’ll tell me this story twice, thrice, or even four times in a row, and laugh about the good ol’ days. I laugh with him, because though he doesn’t remember that he’s already told me this story for the fourth time in a row, he does remember the fun we had. My brother’s like a broken record, but I don’t mind one bit.

Sunday School

Children laughing as they play

With the dollhouse and tiny dolls.

Children screaming as they say

“He took my toy away!”


Children cooking plastic food

At the small kitchen made just for them.

Children putting the toy food in their mouths

As we say, “Don’t do that, you can’t lick them.”


Children building houses out of Legos,

And talking about their plans.

Us listening, smiling, and nodding our heads

Even when I don’t understand.


Children stretching out top tubes,

And running around the table with them.

Children falling down and crying

After we told them not to run.


Children dumping blocks onto the floor

As we try to clean up the room.

Children leaving one by one

When their parents pick them up.


Two children asking when their parents are coming

Because they are twenty minutes late.

Parents finally coming to get them,

So we can eagerly make our escape.

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