.
*Sat there
and stroked her hand
while she slept.
And as I traced each wrinkle,
upon every knuckle,
each told me stories.
Stories of my growing up,
that I knew,
which I’d long forgotten.
They reminded me
of my childhood mischief,
truancy and nonchalance.
They spoke to me of wilfulness.
They struck me
with shame of the audacity
and the occasional disrespect.
But I’m no longer pursuing
childish fantasies.
And I no longer see
through adolescent eyes.
So as she laid there fast asleep,
I hoped hopelessly and silently,
for her to read my thoughts
and feel my love…
While I stroked her hand
and wept.*
.