Wings to fly
Here I am, dreaming of a house. A nest. For me. And Rosie. I am grateful to her, for she is my teacher.
Here I am. in Bomma's flat. Looking up - like I did when I was small - at the swallow's nest high on her wall. The one she bought from a family, hiding in the woods. I'd like to take her for pancakes, to hear another story. I am grateful for every one.
Here I am. A photo of me, listening to Momma. Talking about baking apple pie. I am grateful to her for trusting me. To spread my wings. When I needed to fly.
Here I am. Dreaming of a garden. For me. For Rosie. So she can collect her feathers in our backyard. Here I am, cutting Rosie's fringe. Straight and ready. For when she wants to leave the nest.
Here we are. Rosie, Agnes, Maria and I. Four generations of woman, connected with an invisible string and wings of hope.