Walking Back

Why we love more our parents when they are not anymore with us?

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Walking back step by step

In my childhood memories…

Little girl who draws stick man on the snow;

Counting birds on the electrical pole;

Running back in the blossoming spring;

With bunch of crocuses 

And scented daffodils; 

Breathing deep; dancing with mint 

Gathered down at the awaken river.

I‘m walking back and it’s not a dream;

I’m not a foreigner and I’m not a stranger 

To the scented geraniums 

And the waves of the Black Sea, 

Or the singing stones of the Danube River.

I am home, silent and simple,

Full of memories of foreign cities, 

With voices and faces of many people

Who barely know me...

Instead of mom to open the door 

Two graves are there to meet me.

Now, I love them more.

By Petrouchka Alexieva

From: United States