spring

Your house was my spring house, with your garden and overgrown backyard, and your small plants in your kitchen. You always gave me one to look after when I lived with you. Little pink flowers, little purple flowers.
And I remember the sun coming into your kitchen when I woke up in the mornings, and how I sat at the table and the slat blinds would create the straightest shadows I've ever seen. We were bathed in that warm yellow light and it felt safe. I can remember the smell of the coffee you'd brewed minutes before I walked into the kitchen and how you sat at the table while I took sips out of your coffee cup and ate Corn Flakes.
You sat there, I sat beside you.
And I remember, you'd send me out to pick raspberries behind the garage in your backyard. You'd give me that big white plastic bowl and say, "Fill it up, liebe." And I would fill it with big raspberries, careful not to squish them. Then I'd bring them back, and you'd wash them, and we'd sit and eat them at the table, or if it was nice, on the back porch.

There are tulips in your garden. They're starting to grow now. They are going to be beautiful when they open.
I wish I could take you back to see them, because I know you'd like that.

There are tulips in your garden, Oma.
I wish you were here to see them.