Hello Win.

Hello love.

She doesn’t remember me,

but still she smiles.

She is frail and tiny,

flimsy in her woolly cardi,

corded veins in folded hands,

she no longer dreams

of dancing with Dad.

The girl bring us cups of tea

and we sit together,

though words evade her.

Still, we get by.

I get up.

Bye Win.

Bye love.

I close the door and wave through the glass.

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