Sandwich Blues Generation

Sometimes it feels easier to throw my younger generation in with my older generation and walk away, as quickly as possible, without drawing undue attention to my own eagerness to disappear into blues of love's last kinder memories. I wonder why it seems they either want to kill each other or they can't eat up enough of each other. Nothing too much in-between, which is more what I get in-between these past and future generations. In my own situation, this older generation has become all too relentlessly white, while my own kids are more of a brown sepia rainbow of polyculturing color mix of browns and whites with ruminating blues. My kids are sure their white grandparents were aliens, possibly benign, but never known, too far away. But, their brown skin grandparents speak with fluent nourishing food, good-news song and blues of love and hated mistrust, wariness of violence. They sing brown stories of blues fogging up from steamy hues, for without love's heat, no blue-souled warmth to sing and scold their bratty grandkids, cherished as whom we have become together, contentious in this time in-between regenerations.