When she died, she left her pen...
In her granddaughters hands, so old, so lovely
And it stayed in the attic for quite a while...
Until one day, one splendid day...
The child, not so young anymore,
Walked up to the attic, expecting to find
Memories, dolls, books, dust...
But she found the pen, the lovely pen...
And when she saw it she thought of
Her grandmother, and she smiled, when
Most would have cried...and beside her flew
A piece of paper, clean as a whistle, neat
And lovely, white and glossy, waitign for her...
And she picked it up, found and old book,
Sat it upon it, and began to write...never thinking
Of the words...and when she was done, a single tear,
A single, solitary tear, blurred the very last word,
And as she read the words over, she remembered
Her grandmother, and she cried...and she looked out
The window as a bird flew past, a sweet little bluebird,
So prim and proper, and she smiled softly as she
Sighed so gently and said, "Thank you." |
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