Vesper

Her eyes, though once bright, are cloudy, shrunken and fragile the form that long was brimful of vigor and a will to outlast life's storms. She stares past a blank horizon through a door that I do not know; the colors she sees are memories, scents and sounds of the long ago. A kaleidoscope of faces turns merry-go-round in her mind; while trees out her window whisper soft lullabies long left behind. The sound of my cheery greeting draws her back to this metal room, away from a creaking rocker and her mama's sweet, gentle croon. It is not my name she whispers as I bend down to kiss her cheek, but a name more dear than ever mine was is the name that she speaks. "Papa," the feeble voice quavers. I am no more a part of her world; the grandma that soothed my sorrows is once again Papa's wee girl. © 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson