The Magic Lantern

Oh, Mother, do you remember

that tiny red projector,

decades old, that you still treasure so greatly?

I am surrounded by them at the museum:

so big, so tiny, so colourful, Mother;

so unlike your most valued possession.

Some are centuries old, projecting

images with the same brownish hue,

like your father’s photograph.

Others are older than your parents;

but, regardless, they give colour to

childhood stories, like the three little pigs.

Mother, they bring to life, to motion,

the static tales we were told as kids.

It feels fantastical, doesn’t it, Mother?

While you were painted black and white,

the kids on the other side played in colour.

Both the same age, living at the same time;

but, still, one so behind and the other so modern.

I don’t understand it; do you, Mother?

I can see it now, though, you reading in bed

one thousand and one nights of tales.

Completely unaware that, miles away,

almost as if, in another world,

your counterparts explored life like Aladdin.

Oh, Mother, if only you had known

of the existence of the magic lantern.

It would have been your greatest treasure.

Maybe even a thousand times more

than your tiny old red projector.