How does gratitude affect your perception in your life? What does having an attitude of gratitude do for you?

For me, gratitude changes the way I see my life because of my son Bray Bray. It doesn’t mean pretending the hard parts aren’t hard or trying to put a positive spin on everything. Caregiving has taught me that gratitude and exhaustion, frustration, fear, and even sadness can all exist at the same time.

My “attitude of gratitude” comes from recognizing that underneath all of those difficult moments is something I would never trade: I get to be Bray Bray’s dad.

Photo: My wife Melly, Bray Bray, and me.

Caring for Bray Bray makes me notice things I might otherwise take for granted.

A smile.

A laugh.

A good morning.

A quiet moment together.

Something that may seem ordinary to someone else can feel extraordinary to me because I understand how much those moments mean.

Gratitude also changes my perspective on the things I have to do. There are days filled with responsibilities, appointments, paperwork, caregiving, and a thousand little tasks. I am not grateful for every one of those things but I am grateful for the reason I’m doing them. There’s a big difference.

Bray Bray has taught me that gratitude isn’t necessarily about having an easy life. Sometimes it’s about being able to see the beautiful life that exists inside the difficult one.

And when I look at my life through that lens, I don’t see everything we may have missed or everything that’s hard.

I see him.

Right now.

In the present.

And I think to myself:

How lucky am I that I get to love this kid?

So yes, I am thankful for Bray Bray.

And I am grateful that he’s still with us after nearly losing him two years ago…

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✨️Gratitude Junkies ✨️ is a monthly collective created by and . I am proud to be part of group that spreads positivity on Substack and values community.

That’s all from me — Chris B.

All I knew was that my son Brayden had been our shining light, and he had a story to tell that he couldn’t tell himself.

Today, I am humbled by our community in my little corner of Substack that keeps growing. 5,870 followers, 1,873 subscribers (as I write this), and human connections that extend way beyond the screen.

When I first started, I felt alone, as most caregivers do. Now, I feel supported and seen. While I’ve always been blessed by Bray Bray’s presence, I now feel blessed by yours as well.

To my fellow caregivers and anyone who feels the struggle of the daily grind and simply needs a little boost at times, I am here for you… WE are here for you, and you are not alone.

And to all of you who have read my posts, commented on my poems, joined my community chat, and have lifted me up, all I can say is THANK YOU!!!

You’ve helped me more than you know, and now I’d like to help you…

The following is the entire first chapter of my exclusive 50-page PDF Download for paid subscribers: How I Grew My Substack By Just Being Me… And How You Can, Too!

Save 52% on Paid Subs

🚨Digital Product Alert!🚨 For those who asked, if you prefer a one-time purchase than subscribing, my 50-page, 10-chapter reflection on my one year on Substack is now here: https://buymeacoffee.com/chrisbwrites/e/571490

~

Chapter One: I Never Meant to Build an Audience

People didn’t subscribe because I had answers. They subscribed because they recognized the questions.

The first person I was trying to reach wasn’t a reader.

It was my son.

Bray Bray cannot tell you about the song that makes him laugh so hard his shoulders bounce.

He can’t explain what it’s like when rain lands on his face.

He can’t tell you why he loves certain drumbeats or why he stares toward music before anyone presses play.

He cannot tell you that he notices far more than most people assume.

So somewhere along the way, I started trying to tell those stories for him.

Not because I thought they were extraordinary.

Because I was afraid they would disappear.

Photo: Me and Bray Bray on a morning walk, August 2026.

Caregiving has a strange relationship with memory.

The days feel impossibly long.

The years vanish.

You spend an afternoon arguing with an insurance company over equipment that should never require an argument.

You learn medication schedules.

Therapy schedules.

Doctor schedules.

Sleep schedules.

You celebrate tiny victories most people would never notice.

Then somehow another year has passed.

I realized early on that if I didn’t write these moments down, even I might forget them.

Not the milestones.

Those are easy.

The little things.

The laugh during breakfast.

The way his hand finds mine without looking.

The sound of his wheelchair rolling across a wooden floor.

The silence after everyone finally falls asleep.

Those moments became poems.

Not because I thought they were publishable.

Because they were true.

When I first started sharing my writing, I wasn’t thinking about subscribers.

I certainly wasn’t thinking about building a platform.

I was trying to answer a much simpler question:

Can someone else feel less alone because I wrote this?

That question has quietly guided almost everything I’ve published since.

It still does.

I think sometimes we get trapped asking the wrong questions.

Will people like this?

Will it go viral?

Is this good enough?

Should I write something more popular?

Those questions aren’t evil.

They’re just noisy.

The quieter question has always served me better:

Is it honest?

Honesty doesn’t guarantee great writing.

But dishonest writing almost always guarantees forgettable writing.

Readers have remarkable instincts.

They can tell when we’re writing toward applause instead of truth.

Maybe they can’t explain how they know.

But they know.

One of the biggest surprises of my writing life is discovering that the poems I almost didn’t publish often became the ones readers remembered.

I remember hesitating over pieces that mentioned oxygen monitors.

Wheelchair transfers.

Insurance approvals.

CPAP masks.

Printer ink.

Old cassette tapes.

These didn’t feel poetic to me.

They felt like Tuesday.

Who wants to read about Tuesday?

Apparently, a lot of people.

Not because Tuesday is fascinating.

Because Tuesday is where life actually happens.

We’re taught to wait for extraordinary moments before we write.

The wedding.

The graduation.

The promotion.

The diagnosis.

Those moments matter.

But life isn’t mostly made of milestones.

It’s made of the thousand ordinary afternoons between them.

That’s where I live as a writer.

That’s where I suspect most of us live as people.

A funny thing happened when I stopped trying to sound like a writer.

People started calling me one.

I don’t mean that as a joke.

For years I thought writing required a certain vocabulary.

A certain seriousness.

A certain polish.

Then I wrote about a printer running out of ink.

About Blockbuster.

About VCRs.

About shaving my son.

About folding laundry.

About waiting rooms.

About beach sand trapped in wheelchair tires.

Those weren’t literary tricks.

They were simply my life.

And something unexpected happened.

Readers didn’t just understand the poems.

They recognized themselves inside them.

Not because they shared my circumstances.

Most don’t.

They recognized the feeling underneath the circumstances.

Love.

Fear.

Exhaustion.

Hope.

Gratitude.

Those emotions don’t belong to caregivers.

They belong to everyone.

That’s the secret I wish someone had told me years ago.

Specific stories create universal emotions.

Not the other way around.

People sometimes ask me how I found my voice.

I don’t think I found it.

I think life slowly removed every voice that wasn’t mine.

Caregiving has a way of doing that.

There’s only so much energy left after you’ve spent the day advocating for your child, managing appointments, navigating uncertainty, and trying to be present for the people you love.

Eventually you stop trying to impress strangers.

You become grateful just to tell the truth.

Ironically, that’s when people begin listening.

Photo: Me, Bray Bray, and my wife Melanie.

What This Chapter Taught Me:

I didn’t build an audience by chasing readers.

I built trust by refusing to abandon my own life in search of a more interesting one.

Every poem became a small act of remembering.

Every essay became a conversation with someone I hadn’t met yet.

Every honest sentence quietly whispered the same thing: “You’re not the only one.”

Looking back, I realize that’s what readers subscribe to.

Not expertise. Not perfection.

Recognition.

They return because they recognize a voice that isn’t pretending.

And that recognition, repeated over time, becomes trust. Trust becomes community.

Community becomes the kind of growth that no algorithm can manufacture.

Try This:

Instead of writing about the biggest thing that happened this week, write about the smallest thing you can’t stop thinking about.

Maybe it’s the coffee cup you carried from room to room all morning.

Maybe it’s the sound your child made while watching rain collect on the window.

Maybe it’s the grocery receipt folded into your pocket.

Don’t search for significance. Describe it honestly.

Then ask yourself one question:

Why couldn’t I stop thinking about this?

That’s where the story begins.

One Line to Remember:

The day I stopped trying to build an audience was the day I started building trust.

To read all ten chapters of my Substack growth journey and access my exclusive PDF download, upgrade to a paid subscription and get 52% off forever for a limited time…

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Subscription URL: https://chrisbwrites.substack.com/subscribe?coupon=4a67178d

🚨Digital Product Alert!🚨 For those who asked, if you prefer a one-time purchase than subscribing, my 50-page, 10-chapter reflection on my one year on Substack is now here: https://buymeacoffee.com/chrisbwrites/e/571490

That’s all from me — Chris B.

Becca’s new single “Supposed To Be” is being released next week on September 3rd, and stay tuned for her new album Birthday Tears to come in November!

During our conversation, we talked about one of the most amazing collaborations I’ve been a part of, not just on Substack but in life. When I posted my poem 6:04 Daydreams on my Notes feed a few months ago, Becca responded and said she really liked the lyrical flow of the poem. I then replied and asked Becca if she wanted to turn my poem into an original song.

Fast forward to now, and during today’s conversation, I thought it would be a real treat for me to read 6:04 Daydreams and then have Becca sing the song live. This way, listeners can hear my original spoken word version of the poem, followed by Becca’s fantastic interpretation. It was a real gift to see and hear Becca sing live, and I am truly honored that she decided to grace us with her guitar and vocal prowess.

What I love about conversations like these is that they aren’t overproduced and perfectly polished. Instead, we are simply being present, living in the moment, and enjoying each other’s company while learning about each other.

In the age of AI, we need conversations like these — and singer/songwriters like Becca Roth — more than ever. Thank you Becca!

Related posts we discussed:

Becca's Substack

"past life" and the person who wrote it

“You are so many people…

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4 months ago · 17 likes · 5 comments · Becca Roth

Becca's Substack

leaving the mistakes in

When we first started the recording process of this album, I knew that I wanted to record the songs the same way that I play them. In the past, I’ve often recorded guitar and vocal takes separately. But for this project, I decided to record them together…

Read more

2 months ago · 16 likes · 15 comments · Becca Roth

Thank you , , and many others for tuning into my live video. Stay tuned for the next episode of Typing It Real!

That’s all from me — Chris B.

Begins with tiny seeds you’ve sown.

Not in the soil, but in the heart—

In simple gestures that you start

To put in practice every day,

And hope each one will make their way

Into another person’s life,

A way to bring relief to strife

That seems to never really end,

But tiny seeds grow into friends.

(By )

~

But tiny seeds grow into friends.

In a thousand years our roots will tend

to evergreens and old wise oaks.

Don’t mistake their browns for cloaks.

She’s heard it all a million times,

impervious to our brooding rhymes.

And yet today she gives me grace;

I seek shelter in translucent shade.

Look up and see the time lapse,

long, long gone before her finger snaps.

(By )

~

Behind the collab: My good friend and fellow writer Jeannie Ewing graciously invited me to take part in this poem challenge she originally received from , where the last line from one poem becomes the first line of someone else’s poem.

I was so inspired by Jeannie’s work that I wrote my response within minutes as it just came pouring out of me. It just goes to show how one tiny seed being planted can lead to vast creation.

Thanks for the inspiration, Jeannie! I can’t wait to go on Substack Live with you on Thursday, September 10th at 1:30 pm ET and share our next project for caregivers and poets! Stay tuned everyone!

Subscribe to Jeannie Ewing here:

I Grow Strong Again

I write essays on motherhood, moral interiority, and the lived experience of raising a child with complex care needs while trying to remain honest with myself. Includes conversations with my daughter Sarah, shared by 3,500+ readers committed to kindness.

By Jeannie Ewing

Check out my previous guest post on I Grow Strong Again here:

I Grow Strong Again

"I’ve learned that strength is not about doing. It’s about showing up when you don’t know how."

Hi, everyone…

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3 months ago · 141 likes · 171 comments · Jeannie Ewing and Chris B. Writes

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Pen bleeds

midnight blue

green crayon

daydreams in wax

bluetooth keyboard

presses on

a sharp pencil

lingers,

wallowing

in unused gray

~

Behind the poem: This poem came to me just before I fell asleep one night, when my eyes were heavy enough to blur the room but my mind was still wandering. I wasn’t trying to write anything overly profound; I simply let the images stay with me long enough to live beside me. In that half-awake state, ordinary things start revealing their personalities. The pen keeps bleeding; the crayon is full of wonder; the keyboard is the workhorse; and the pencil feels left out.

Ultimately, Unused Gray lives in that half-asleep / half-awake state, where logic loosens its grip just enough for metaphor to walk into the room.

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

The night

as young

as me

bends to its

crescent moon

I am not new

but I am also

not full

~

Behind the poem: I’ve always been drawn to the moon because it refuses to apologize for being unfinished. We celebrate the full moon, but most nights it isn’t full—it exists somewhere in between. I think that’s where most of us actually live. This poem came from realizing that growth isn’t about becoming someone entirely new or waiting until you’re complete. It’s about honoring the season you’re in. The crescent moon carries enough light to remind us that becoming is its own kind of beauty. So do we.

Also, those last two lines—but I am also not full— mean so much to me as I get older. Yes, I am not new. And yet, I am also still hungry to enjoy the rest of my life and all it has to offer…

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Read more

Eating honeycrisps

by the crate

Apple care

rebate

~

Two egg whites

turkey bacon

sunrises

God I miss you

New York

pizza slices

~

Poland Spring

in Stanley cups

Dreaming Coca-Cola

Big Gulps

~

Sugary

zeros

Goodbye

deli heroes

~

Donating

stone wash jeans

Pass

the greens

~

Fresh

honeydew

200

in view

~

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

I hear

the silence

change its tune.

Which task

belongs

to now.

~

I feel the room

before

I enter.

I’ve learned

his smile

can hide infection;

a clear afternoon

can easily

turn opaque.

~

No Google search

teaches the language

of my son.

But every sleepless night,

every transfer,

every prayer

between alarms

has become

another lesson

in fluency.

~

“How did you know?”

ask curious

bystanders.

A magician

never tells.

I know…

because I’ve asked.

~

But every now and then,

I see fragments

of the answer

through grateful

steel-blue windows.

~

He smiles

and the trick

is revealed.

His gift,

untempered grace.

My reward,

unfettered intuition.

~

Learn more about ✨️Gratitude Junkies✨️ created by and …

Mouse & Meditation with Andrea Thorfinson

✨Gratitude Junkies✨

Wow! This is our fourth month sharing our gratitude as part of the…

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a month ago · 25 likes · 34 comments · Andrea Thorfinson

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That's all from me — Chris B.

Looking for safe harbor

in eyes that cannot stay

and a voice that cannot say

~

I pray his ears

can hear

my dulcet tones

when I read poems

about a boy

who had no choice

and yet he chose

to rejoice

~

I witness this fight

while I write

The Gospel of Bray Bray

~

Behind the poem: This was inspired by ’s Word as Lens Prompt: Harbor. Thanks Monica!

Monica A Leyva

The Word as Lens Week 23

The Word as Lens…

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a month ago · 19 likes · 14 comments · Monica A Leyva

You can also check out our collaborative poem, Cupid’s Apology…

Monica A Leyva

Cupid's Apology

Some stories are remembered from the hand that released the arrow; others by the heart that received it…

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a month ago · 63 likes · 53 comments · Monica A Leyva and Chris B. Writes

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

The hour before the

➡️witches

➡️congregate

is where the real

➡️magic

➡️happens

I see them preparing

just before

➡️dreaming

of seamless wheelchair

➡️transferences

I’d pray to them for

➡️rested

➡️assurances

if it meant

➡️attaining

➡️one

➡️uninterrupted

➡️spell

~

Behind the poem: This poem began with an intentional double-meaning. We usually think of a spell as something cast by witches, but we also use the word to describe a stretch of uninterrupted time. For me, as a caregiver, that second definition of spell carries its own kind of magic. A full night’s sleep. A transfer that goes smoothly. An overnight without alarms sounding from Bray Bray’s bed. Those moments can feel just as mythical as anything from a fairy tale.

The arrowed words serve two purposes for me:

• They stand alone as their own poem if you just read those words.

• They act like ingredients being added to a potion, each one carrying a little more weight until the ending reveals what the speaker has really been trying to conjure.

The witches aren’t necessarily witches, and they are certainly more graceful than grizzled. They’re stand-ins for whatever unseen force might grant exhausted caregivers a small miracle. Sometimes the most potent magic isn’t found in enchanted forests. It can be one uninterrupted spell of rest before unconditional love asks you to get up again.

~

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Print facts

Fax prints

~

Scan to email

Emailing scans

~

Double-sided paper

One-sided truth

~

Running out of ink

Ink runs out of me

~

Shots fired from the Canon…

a lonely pen bleeds

wishing it were already

dry

~

Behind the poem: Sometimes a poem begins with nothing more than a list of ordinary words. Printers. Fax machines. Ink. Paper. I wanted to see how far office language could stretch before it stopped sounding like equipment and started sounding like a person. In the space between “Double-sided paper” and “One-sided truth,” that’s where the poem really lives for me.

We all have moments when we feel like another cartridge to replace, another signature to provide, another page to feed through the machine. In the end, this isn’t really a poem about a desktop. It’s about the quiet cost of giving so much of yourself that you begin hoping there’s nothing left to pour out.

~

My memoir feature for the July 2026 issue of Exceptional Parent Magazine is live!!! Check it out here!

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

There are medications to pack. Wheelchair motors to charge. Trays to carry. Medical supplies. CPAP machines. Favorite cups. Sensory chew necklaces, pop tubes, and pop its. Backup plans for the backup plans. Somewhere in between, we remember to throw in our own clothes.

I’ve learned that traveling with Bray Bray doesn’t begin when we leave the driveway.

It begins weeks before.

And yet every year, when the dust settles and the bags are finally unpacked, I realize we weren’t just planning a vacation.

We were protecting a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

This year, we returned to Woodloch Pines in Hawley, PA.

For our family, Woodloch isn’t just a resort. It’s become one of those rare places where disability isn’t treated like an inconvenience to work around. It’s simply part of the landscape. Wide paths. Accessible rooms. Staff who don’t stare. Families who smile instead of pity. Paths leading to the lake instead of ending before it.

Places like that matter more than most people realize.

Because when you’re a caregiving family, accessibility doesn’t just open doors.

It opens possibilities.

~

Bray Bray laughed… a lot.

One of my favorite moments wasn’t during an activity or a show.

It was simply watching him look up through the trees.

Most people see branches.

He sees a ceiling made of light.

The wind moved through the leaves while he stared into that endless patch of blue, completely captivated by something the rest of us nearly walked past.

He reminds me over and over that wonder isn’t found by looking farther.

It’s found by looking in the first place.

~

Bray Bray spent time with his cousins.

Kids, now coming of age, who have grown alongside his wheelchair instead of around it.

There is something beautiful about children who never learned to separate disability from family.

To them, Bray Bray isn’t the cousin in the wheelchair.

He’s just Brayden.

The one who laughs.

The one who drums on tables.

The one who suddenly bursts into the biggest smile in the room.

Watching them gather around him reminded me that inclusion isn’t about a program.

It’s about the relationships.

There were sunsets over the lake that felt painted rather than photographed.

Morning walks.

Matching USA 1776 shirts.

Cold drinks on hot afternoons.

Family photos where someone blinked.

Where someone else looked the wrong direction.

Where perfection never showed up…

…and somehow made the picture better.

Because that’s what families actually look like.

~

I found myself thinking about something I’ve written before.

There is no cure.

Only care.

I used to think those words sounded heavy.

Now they feel freeing.

Care has given us this.

Care loaded the van.

Care pushed the wheelchair.

Care remembered every medication.

Care made room for cousins, grandparents, laughter, and one more sunset over the lake.

Care isn’t what prevented this vacation.

Care is what made it possible.

~

As parents of children with profound disabilities, we’re often asked how we do it.

The honest answer?

We don’t always know.

We simply keep saying yes to another memory.

Yes to another adventure.

Yes to another chance for Bray Bray to feel the wind against his face and laugh at something only he understands.

One day these vacations will live mostly in photographs.

A bucket hat.

A favorite T-shirt.

A dock stretching into still water.

A family squeezed together beneath a giant WOODLOCH sign.

~

I’ll look back and realize that the destination wasn’t the point.

The point was that we kept going.

That love refused to stay home.

And maybe that’s what this year’s vacation gave me more than anything else.

Not rest.

Not escape.

Perspective.

The realization that joy doesn’t always announce its arrival.

Sometimes it rides beside it in a wheelchair, stopping every few minutes to look up through the trees… reminding all of us that the sky has been beautiful the whole time.

~

My memoir piece about my journey with Bray Bray was ACCEPTED for publication by Exceptional Parent Magazine in their July 2026 issue!!! Subscribe to EP Magazine for free here, and check out the lead image for the 3-page spread below!

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

anything but lonely

despite

matchbox twenty’s

messaging

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My memoir piece about my journey with Bray Bray was ACCEPTED for publication by Exceptional Parent Magazine in their July 2026 issue!!! Subscribe to EP Magazine for free here, and check out the lead image for the 3-page spread below!

Subscribe now

Now, onto the poems… and photos!

Roots

I wonder if roots

dream of crisp views from the top

yearning for one breeze

~

Ripples

Little ripples dream

causing the stoic water

to live a little

~

Walls

I used to think

walls were everything.

A roof.

A key.

A steady porch light

I never slowed down

long enough

to stand beneath.

~

And then I watched

as whole houses

forgot their names.

Wood softening under weather.

Windows swallowing dust.

Rooms going quiet one by one

until even the echoes packed up.

~

Somewhere,

inside the wreckage,

love had happened there.

~

I’ve felt my own frame lean.

Claims stacked like pancakes

topped with fear

and a side of tired

before 10 a.m.

~

Bray Bray laughs

at something small,

breakfast regains its taste.

Presence is delicious.

~

And suddenly home

isn’t what’s in the drywall,

it’s who makes up the foundation.

~

Rebuilding doesn’t always

look graceful.

Old structures

fall apart.

~

And yet he keeps

handing me

fresh paint,

batteries,

and flashlights—

another morning

to try again

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Here are some more photos from our annual family vacation, live from Woodloch Pines in PA!

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Here’s my interview with Zev that shares the raw truth behind caring for my son Bray Bray. From the first minute, I suggest you have your tissues ready…

~

Aftermath: What Would He Say?

This was the interview that inspired my poem, What Would He Say?

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

This one’s for you…

Sunday Glow (Unwritten)

I know who you are by your morning call

you’ve always greeted me so cheerfully

one thing’s for certain as I rise and fall

I can always count on you here for me

~

I wish I could say thank you just one time

I hope you can see it come through my eyes

I love it when we rock out to Sublime

clapping and drumming as we harmonize

~

We’ve had our fair share of hospital stays

I’m not sure why it had to be this way

while I still can’t seem to break through the haze

I’ll keep fighting for you and mom each day

~

You’re about to walk in and say hello

together we’ll revel in Sunday glow

~

Happy Father’s Day!

Love, Bray Bray

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Thank you , , , , , and many others for tuning in!

Related posts:

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

LISTEN TO THE SONG HERE:

Original words by me, song created using musicgeneratorai

~

90-Something Summer (Song Lyrics)

Burned a hole in my VCR

watching Mark listen to Gwar

Blockbusters and indie films

fast forwarding commercialism

The day we learned to press record

videos of Prince and Def Leppard

Soundtracks embedded in my mind

cream and sugar rewind

~

CHORUS:

CD booklets, liner notes

every track list that we wrote

Sipping on pink lemonade

drinking up the good old days

~

Bikes unchained on the ground

pizza slices all around

Feeling that Nintendo glow

giving Tyson knockout blows

Orange Crush, first moonlight kiss

getting lost in each other’s bliss

Diner runs in cassette tape cars

carefree nights without morning scars

~

CHORUS:

CD booklets, liner notes

every track list that we wrote

Sipping on pink lemonade

drinking up the good old days

~

I’ve traded in my Wiffle balls

for wheelchair walks and angel’s calls

The music hums through guitar strums

he keeps time on beating drums

The day he taught me to let go

ducking and dodging every blow

He laughs again in morning rain

I press repeat on sweet refrain

~

CHORUS:

CD booklets, liner notes

every track list that we wrote

Sipping on pink lemonade

drinking up the good old days

OUTRO:

He laughs again in morning rain

I press repeat on sweet refrain

~

READ ORIGINAL POEM & POST:

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That’s all from me — Chris B.

Burned a hole in my VCR

watching Mark listen to Gwar

Blockbusters and indie films

fast forwarding commercialism

The day we learned to press record

videos of Prince and Def Leppard

Soundtracks embedded in my mind

cream and sugar rewind

~

Bikes unchained on the ground

pizza slices all around

Feeling that Nintendo glow

giving Tyson knockout blows

CD booklets, liner notes

every track list that we wrote

Sipping on pink lemonade

drinking up the good old days

~

I’ve traded in my Wiffle balls

for wheelchair walks and angel’s calls

The music hums through guitar strums

he keeps time on beating drums

The day he taught me to let go

ducking and dodging every blow

He laughs again in morning rain

I press repeat on sweet refrain

~

Behind the poem: This poem started with a VCR and a flood of memories. I wanted to revisit those small moments that felt endless at the time—recording music videos, riding bikes until dark, playing Nintendo, and believing summer would never run out. As I wrote, I realized the poem wasn’t really about the 1990s. It was about replaying the things that stay with us.

The final section brings that idea into the present, where the soundtrack has changed but the feeling remains. The games, music, and rituals of childhood taught me something I wouldn’t understand until years later: some of the most meaningful moments in life are the ones worth pressing repeat on… and that’s the key lesson my son Bray Bray teaches me and reinforces every day.

Bonus photo: Is it me or does this photo of Bray Bray look like a 1990s grunge/pop punk CD album cover? 💿🤘🎸🎤

Edit: Check out the extended song version of 90-Something Summer here!

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That’s all from me — Chris B.