In a room bathed in soft, fading light, An old woman sits, her gaze fixed out of sight, The open window, a portal to the world beyond, A silent witness to dreams that have quietly absconded.

Her wrinkled hands trace the patterns on the quilt, A tapestry of memories, each thread richly built, Recalling the warmth of her home, now a distant place, Where laughter once flowed, now but a fleeting trace.

Outside, the wind whispers through the trees, Carrying echoes of children's laughter on the breeze, But the sound is a specter, a phantom of the past, For the children she raised, have moved on so fast.

In her mind, she revisits their tender embrace, The joy in their eyes, the innocence of their face, Yet the reasons they left, a question that lingers, Why the old age home now echoes with their absence' singers?

Perhaps life's demands pulled them far away, Or the weight of responsibility led them astray, Yet in the silence of the old age home's embrace, She wonders if they remember her, in some far-off place.

So she sits by the window, day after day, Watching for a glimpse of her children, come what may, Holding onto memories, both bitter and sweet, In the hope that one day, their paths may again meet.

For in the quiet solitude of the old age home's embrace, Her love for them remains, an unwavering grace, And though the reasons they left may never fully be known, Her heart still yearns for the children who've flown.
© Badmask

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