Rows of red brick buildings,
Occupants young and old.
Mother's at home with their children,
Implanting stories yet to be told.

Each building public housing,
Divided for families times four.
One could always be certain,
Who the family was living next door.

Fathers performing their duties,
Working daily to bring home the bread.
Children not rushed off to daycare,
But cared for by Mothers instead.

Early childhood I lived in a row house,
Four small rooms the six of us shared.
I recall at times it was crowded,
With love in a home no one cares.

Three precious years we all lived there,
I and my sisters times three.
Together we listen to the radio,
We had never seen a TV.

Summer nights were very delightful,
When row children gathered to play.
Hide and seek sometimes became frightful,
But we over it the very next day.

Our parents would sit at their windows,
Observing the children at play.
They were concerned for our safety,
So we would be together the next day.

Fifty years have passed since those memories,
Time, I know, changes all,
I can't help but sit here and wonder,
Will today's children have pleasant Recall?

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