dedicated to M. L. P.
my eyes are blue - identical orbs to yours, which reflect the sun floating in through the curtain. you have perfect pitch, but never minded my tone deafness when we cooked and baked side-by-side; your blueberry muffins always melted so sweetly in my mouth; I still can't get them to turn out like you did - what was your secret?
it will probably remain a mystery, but we've shared other secrets. and we have the log cabin quilt we made - my first and only, your zillionth. just like you and Dad have shared the farm and horses. and how you exchange snippets of familiar topics with the nurse; she knew you before you came here.
Uncle John visited you yesterday, he said you two walked outside. if it wasn't muddy today from the rain last night, I'd walk with you to the garden bench; you might sing to the birds in the bird bath, thinking you are in your own garden.
the horses miss you, but Uncle John and Dad take good care of them, and Amy can't stay away for long. of us five grandchildren, Amy fell deepest in love with the farm - though nobody could be as in love as you. your quilts still adorn each chair, couch, and bed, and Amy still sings to the birds in her perfect pitch.
but even her blueberry muffins are missing something; only you could make them perfectly.
sitting here with you beside the window as light falls across your pinwheel quilt on the bed, you call me Amy. but I don't mind being Amy, as long as I'm with you.