joyelaine
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I miss hearing my Dad play his guitar and sing this song. He would come home from working hard at the sawmill; he would shower and shave and eat his dinner quickly. Then he would sit and play a few songs, this was always one he sung. Then he would say goodbye to us and go to his night job. He would always come… Read more
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When I get old, they’re never going to say, “What a sweet old lady.” They’re gonna say, “What on EARTH is she up to now?!‽‽‽
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Mrs Ippy? She works in the Launderette right?
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I Too. . .
Your name has been etched
on to that cold, grey stone
behind the words
in memory ofDoes the stone paint a picture
of the sparkle your eyes once held
as you told me the stories
of your own childhood years?Can it recall the warmth
remembered in your voice
as you hugged me tightly to yourself
whispering “My Baby Girl”?So on my piece of paper
in words…-
Beautiful
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