The Oft-Neglected Lives of Parents

She has gypsy blood hidden in her veins.
His father was a quiet man.
She has a long-lost sibling.
He lost a sibling long ago.
She drowned library books in a murky pond.
He wanted to be a priest.
She wanted to be a nun.
He spoke Chinese.
She taught herself Spanish but daydreamed in French.
He kept his faith.
She lost hers.
He built a car.
She wanted six boys.
He wanted five girls.
She scuba dived.
He was once invited to join.
They scuba dived.
She knew what she wanted in her youth.
He has yet to decide.
She bleached her hair blond and smoked her mother's cigarettes.
He is tall.
She is short.
They met while doing heroic things.
She the ears.
He the hands.
They were romantic.
They were spontaneous.
They married on a holiday.
They danced to Ella Fitzgerald.  
They planned.
They bought an abandoned house.
They reproduced.
They made a home.
Every now and again they share a tale of times long since past.
Their children doubt.
Perhaps because of selfishness.
Perhaps because these same voices read them fictional tales.
They age.
They tire.
They grow jaded.
Yet they ensure that for however fleeting a time their children never age.
Never tire.
Never grow jaded.
They go to the movies.
They giggle as they clean.
They disgust the young with public displays of affection.
They have spoiled.