Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
there are only a few minuscule differences
between what they see and what I saw

I used to creep into the hall closet
and lug our wood- and cardboard-bound
construction-paper-filled albums
down from the shelf,
curl on the couch, knees crossed,
opening the pages so many times
that the punched holes holding them in place
began to tear by age nine,
the photo stickers began to peel off by eleven,
and as a teenager, the books
were almost too fragile to touch.

Now, in fifteen seconds,
I open up the laptop, command-click
five albums and then the black triangle,
choose a playlist that they all enjoy,
and watch as they, mesmerized,
view a three-seconds-per-pic slideshow
with dissolve, bubble, and fade—in effects
that I never could have imagined
when I was their age.

Just like when I was a child, they’re obsessed
with examining pictures of themselves
and
I think how much children are still the same
while the world around us is so strikingly different.