The dim yellow
beam

of the flash light

carves a
path

through the
clutter
of old tools and antiques

as I descend the basement steps
toward
my
time machine.

I grip the cellophane-taped corners and lift the faded blue lid.
I travel back
in black in white
time
to black and blue
bruises
and skinned knees
with mercurochrome
and pink band aids in metal boxes.

As I put the photographs back into the box
(in the same order as I removed them)
I return to the present
where Technicolor rules
and band aids no longer make the hurt go away.
Where there’s no one to call, “Daddy”.