I'm Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

My parents have lived in the same house since I was six years old.

I grew up there, and now, to my kids, it's Mimi and Papa's house.

It hasn't changed much at all.

New paint, new carpet, new furniture, sure, but the objects I

remember from my childhood are still there. The painting of the ice skaters, the large

framed print of the three little girls reading a book together. It always reminded my mom of my two

younger sisters and me. The sand art brought back from the west coast, maybe from a trip to California,

the framed photos of my grandparents, the mantle clock, the tiny rocking chair that belonged to my

mother's mother when she was a baby. It's strange to think of inheriting these things after my parents are

gone. It's strange to think of these objects

living anywhere else but in that house. I wonder what objects in my house my kids will feel

attached to, what things they will associate with me and with home.

I don't really wear jewelry, so there isn't a sentimental ring or necklace I could pass down,

but we do have a lot of art in our house, paintings, photos, framed prints, and a lot of books and music. I'm not sure if

inheriting my poetry library or record collection excites them, but they'll certainly have a lot to

choose from.

My guess, though, the family photos and Christmas ornaments will be what they attach to most.

My kids are sentimental and nostalgic, like their mother.

Today's poem is about fathers and sons and about loss.

It's also about the small, shining parts of our lives that survive us and get passed down to the next generation.

White Hot Star by W. Todd Kineko

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