I am visiting my granny's cottage Some time after her sad demise, I hold my breath on the threshold As her memories flood my mind. Without going inside I can see Each room of this tiny cottage: The front room where she welcomed Her friends, and even a stray goat. Her table by the curtained window, Where she raised her cup of tea To the rising sun, and to the birch Whose branches always waved to her. Her kitchen where she always had Something delicious only for me, At least her dainty hand-made cheese. Her husband's study which remained Locked even for her darling me, It was actually a treasured vault Where the memories of the moments Which she had shared only with him. Then her room, her books, her bed, Where as a child I slept in her arms, As my mother also may have done, Reaching for her face with tiny hands, While drifting away to meet the fairies On the wings of her magical stories. And it was there our roles where reversed, When I had to put her to some sleep, As she clutched my hand like a child To find some support while drowning In the unbearable pain of her sickness, And it was on that bed I had found her Sleeping peacefully in the arms of death, And as per her wish I had prepared for her From her garden's flowers a clumsy wreath.