Member-only story
Sleeping Fireflies
She makes my bed every morning.
Her voice is a song for my soul.
When my bedpan smells I find solace in her perfume.
It reminds me of someone.
Oak. Thyme. Lavender. A hint of spice.
But my senile neurons are still asleep.
Memories are no more than dreams.
Her hands are gentle. Her touch is soothing.
I never hear her complain.
She drives me to the doctor. Tells me a joke.
Knock. Knock. Who’s there?
This old man with no life to spare.
She laughs and daffodils bloom.
No gloom.
But what is her name?
I knew it once but not anymore. I think.
The vase is on the top shelf.
Every recollection out of reach.
No stool to stand on.
Broken toes and aching knees.
Sleeping fireflies. A fading breeze.
Her name?
I asked her once but she didn’t reply.
There was something in her eye.
