I am just like her in many ways – must be those genes or something… When in the middle of a discussion I would suddenly turn around and walk away just because something didn’ t seem fair, people would say: “She’ s just like Kat!”. We use to live together, you know – for a while. Just her and me but it didn’ t last, just couldn’ t have. That “Solar system” was too tight for two planets not to keep crashing constantly into each other, and we had to return to our separate orbits. Yet the invisible connection was never lost. I still remember her hands so clearly – those small palms that never knew peace, with all the life crossroads imprinted in them. Sharpness of her mind as well as of her tongue. Silver threads in her hair and those blue eyes that looked so calmly and always noticed more. More than it was said, more than it could be seen.
When nature breathes heavily through the morning fog in autumn, Michaelmas daisies – her favourite flowers start to bloom. Free. Proud. Strong. Beautiful in their simplicity. Almost invincible. Surviving even the first frosts, yet unable to beat winter. With a bouquet in my hand, straight from the garden, I walk along that sandy cemetery path all the way up to an old pine tree. Like the last year. And several more before. There is so much in my heart I would want to say… I wish we did have more time. I wish…but I know she knows. Because grandmothers always do. And because I am just like her.
in old cemetery pines