Amidst twilight-tinted clouds, she roams.
On a trip, so overdue, back home.

Over dew-blanketed hills of green, she lept,
unbeknownst to us, who thought she slept.

Long removed from time and place, she stood.
Spinning tales, reminding names that no one could.

Every month, he'd bring her flowers to her bed,
Making up for things he'd done, things he said.

She was lucid for a while when we'd come by.
But I'd catch her staring blankly at the sky.

I was sad I got to see them less and less,
But was glad they didn't know me as a mess.

Every day I'd go to Grandma's and play kid,
and she'll go looking for us, laughing, while we hid.