The Primrose Lullaby

A text I wrote from my grandmother's point of view. During her final years on earth she had been suffering from dementia.

How did I get here, my little rose?

My boat has run aground and stands still.

I can no longer remember; drifting away from every thought in this dark night.

Is there anything else?

The primroses are different; they wiggle in the wind without caring about time.

The soil crumbles as I plant them.

I am pressing the flowers down lightly.

Carefully, because if I press too hard, they will die.

There is no perfect day to leave.

There is only this day with its salt and spray.

A beetle gets caught in a bush and a hawk flaps its wings wildly and turns back.

Cold drops fall from the pale sky.

Painful is the air I am breathing here.

But you are with me and our hands are held tight.

I will wait one more day, though I do not know when it will be over.

I will wait one more day, until I leave.

About the author

My name is Lisa aka Toki and I am crazy in love with words

and every visual or acoustical expression.

Most of my time, I draw funny characters and write short stories

about little dogs.

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