365 Days.

I look out over the lake,
admiring it’s shining surface,
bits of sun caught in the waves,
reflecting into my eyes.

I wish I could draw this,
but some things you can’t draw,
can’t capture their beauty,
their strength,
or the smell,
like the one that fills the air.

A smell of little lavenders that grow nearby in patches,
and the sound of buzzing bees.
I wish a butterfly would land on my nose,
so I could watch it,
make a wish,
a wish for something better than this.

But no butterfly will come to me,
for there is nobody that can grant me my wish.
A wish to be healthy.
A wish to live.

I lie down onto the grass and stare up at the sky,
watch the clouds for a bit.

I see a bunny,
and a flower,
a smudged picture of Simba,
like the one the monkey drew.
I see a grinning happy pirate,
with a patch for an eye,
and I see a hand,
reaching out.
The wind blows the clouds and it’s gone.

My grandmother used to tell me,
that only few people can see that hand,
the hand of God,
and how it reaches out,
like it did to Adam,
to take the souls into Heaven.

And that only people who are dying,
see it.