The Price and Princess

I put down the paper, now creased and torn And imagine the chubby little fingers that wrote the story, And how they are now grown and gone A tear rolls down my wrinkled face, As I think of the blurred lines Weaving tales of a magical prince and princess Running through woods and beaches and fields And how the little child’s imagination Had come up with a story so magnificent, It made a world of its own Tears run freely now, when I think of what the story brought Without help of others, she created a universe of her own One I wish I could escape to now, if only she were here A small child runs past, whipping my grey streaked hair around my face ‘Come on, grandma’ I hear a singsong voice, and feel a tug on my hand I get up slowly, and walk to the house and up the stairs I tuck the child into bed, a smile on my face He closes his eyes, and I get up to leave But I am stopped by a small whisper, ‘Please grandma, tell me a story’ I ask which one, and he thinks quietly ‘The one with the prince and princess’ He whispers, his eyes still shut, and I begin the tale When his breathing slows and his soft snores begin, I get up and walk out, then look back to the room, Where the prince and princess began.