When they were young, I read to my children
every night, first together then separately,
as their tastes and reading levels parted.
I don’t know why. It’s what the experts said you should do.
My Father’s Dragon, Charlie and his chocolate.
Anne of Green Gables. I think they liked it.
I know I did.

If I could freeze time, preserve
a single moment in amber, it would be that.
If I could fly faster than the speed of light,
it would be only to travel back to that
bedroom, children clustered, reading aloud.

But I can’t. Hawking aside, you
can’t travel backward in the fourth dimension,
probably.

Last night, Alice said, Hey Dad, wanna hear
something funny? She read it to me, just like I once
read to her and I closed
my eyes and listened. I told her
laughter was making my eyes water.

Time travel is more complicated than I realized.
So is everything else.