She was attracted to windows, of all things. She had framed photos and paintings of windows hung in her office. I don't know what her attraction to windows was. But it was there. As her mind shut down, light by brilliant light dimmed by disease, I wonder if she saw a window and remembered her love of them.
This poem can't honestly be said to be inspired by her. Not even by the her I knew when I knew her. It's not really me, either.
I guess it just is.
Streaked by time and tears
choked out in bitter fits and starts.
No entry to soul here.
Thank you, One Single Impression.