Cat Shilova
FOR ALICE
Two years ago, Alice left. To a place without memories, or maybe, which contains all memories.
I still miss her. I still think of her. I still don't understand certains things. But I am rich of what she gave, of what we shared. Of our embraces, of her graceful way to be happy about small marvels. A child, the color of a flower. And of the proud way she used to say "my daughter".
FOR ALICE
Two years ago, Alice left. To a place without memories, or maybe, which contains all memories.
I still miss her. I still think of her. I still don't understand certains things. But I am rich of what she gave, of what we shared. Of our embraces, of her graceful way to be happy about small marvels. A child, the color of a flower. And of the proud way she used to say "my daughter".