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.