:-)
The floor's sandalwood strips were soaked in her life, patterned short and long. She got old, and so she tumbled into a cruel dementia unequal to the kindness of her life. Old Mr. Pearson had no visitors but her, and so he paid her in apples and plums grew at the far end of his back garden. Grandma's grandkids had buns, donuts and cakes in their hands. Tender was her death on a January morning; tender was her life lived. Infinite sadness was no payment for the debt.
Granddad wiped away the dust from sanding the boards flush and dipped his brush in the dinky can of sealer. He was refinishing the floors, keeping them up for the pleasure of diligence. The quiet moments of meticulous work were his dreamscape, young and old. Train timetables nourished the crux of his mind; he planned the journey, never how to live once he got there. It was tomorrow's seedlings, not today's daffodils, that kept him preoccupied.
And without his wife, he would continue for a short while.
i'd like to thank ebiboulya for reminding me and inspiring me to do something with this account. it's not much, but here it is. it's about my grandparents. this unworthy post is dedicated to everybody we've lost and everybody left behind. death has to be a joke, it's too awful to be real, eh?
Submit Thread for Judgment
Reply With Quote