I know it seems like there's someone else,
Who's always in the limelight? 
But, it is also true: we all have our day in the sun.

"Babe."

"Yes, Bertha."

"I cried earlier at work. I had to be taken off the deli counter."

"Oh, Beautiful, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, that's just it, babe. I cried out of happiness. I've had quite a life, with not much luck, and then I met you and discovered what real love is."

"Oh, Bertha... I feel the same. Hug?"

"Yes, hug."

Your disease pushes people away
while you try to grasp them all the harder
with querulous tone and haranguing words -
your paranoia knows no bounds
and bulldozes through all my good intentions.
When will the light begin to glimmer in your brain
that people can love you
without you trying to force it ?

When winter came with blankets of mist
A cover of cloud through the day
Skies would stretch in endless grey
No dancing rays of an ochre sun
Then, what comfort and sweet bliss -
Was a cup of tea with cinnamon.

All wrapped in scarf, cap and mitts
Warming hands and toasting toes
Singing rhymes or talking prose
We'd whisper tales that winter spun
Tucked at night in layered quilt -
With a cup of tea with cinnamon.

With happiness, memories sing
Of smiles of youth that teased the cold
Battled wars that could be won -
To gloat in glory when grey and old
Oh, what comfort it still brings -
That cup of tea with cinnamon