it ended and begun

my stockinged legs barely grazing the surface,
swinging back and forth
and forth and back...
and over.

sweeping over.
the job of a broom.

i'm thinking, in the motion of my natural sway,
that there are so many children here.
but we never see them.
babies faces hidden in their shadowy perambulators.
cries the only indication of their existance.

why doesn't memory begin at the beginning,
and end at the end?
why must it fade in and out so?

do we really want to even remember what that was like?