by Michelle Coleman
Gently, in the night, I am calling to you;
Bringing you back with me, to the time when there were few
Of us that could play the piano in the small parlor with the loud pink walls
And mother used to sing as we played songs from her country.
Oh how I wish I could play like that again
But my hands are too old and my memory is too weak to go back
To the snowy Sunday afternoons
And those old songs that echoed through the pink walls.
Now I cannot relive those days of my youth
That play back in my mind to the tunes of the Old Country.
I am no longer a child, and hardly even a woman anymore
And I weep heavily as my memory becomes dusty and faded.
