I call to you now and ask you to reflect, to see through the dementia of years, through the medicated consolation, the depression, and the memory loss. See what I remember in this moment and feel my youthful hands grasp your weathered face as I plant a plush kiss on your weary forehead.

But most desperately of all, I implore you to remember the times I sat on your knee as a baby with my chubby fingers twirling your wispy white hair into bunches and how, like a genteel King of the pride, you let me play in bliss.

Succumb not yet to the Summerlands beyond. You are granted longer years yet.

Author: Sophie Ball

Creative Writer, Muser, General Describer of Things

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