I’m glad she did not have to see this end.

When her mind fled somewhere deep inside,

she still thought the world was her best friend.

She remembered talking to the birds,

planting flowers, dancing in the night.

For this life, I don’t think she’d find words.

She’d prefer old memories to fright.

When she told me how she was forgetting,

happy to let some things slip away,

she explained it as some kind of vetting,

making room for things beyond today.

Just to watch the robins from her small room,

building nests inside her only tree,

she had not a notion of doom or gloom.

Looking back, that’s quite all right with me.