Among twilight-tinted clouds, she roams.
On a trip, so overdue, back home.

Over dew-lined hills of green, she leapt,
unbeknownst to us who thought she slept.

Long removed from time and place, she stood.
Spinning tales, recalling names that no one could.

Every month, he'd bring her flowers to her bed,
Making up for things he'd done, things he said.

She was lucid for a while when we'd come by.
But I'd catch her staring blankly at the sky.

I was sad I got to see them ever less,
But I was glad they didn't know me as this mess.

Every day I'd go to Grandma's and play kid,
and she'd go looking for us, laughing, as we hid.