On a gloomy day in the middle of March, I curled up inside the fluffy blanket and buried my face into Popo’s soft hands.
Inside the velvety darkness, melodies of “Come away with me” floated like flows of sweetness and desperation at the same time. They reached the very core of my heart and tore it apart. Both my hands and feet were cold. I tossed and turned from side to side, rubbing my bare feet together and tucking my hands under the arms in a vain hope that it would also warm up my soul.
How I wished someone was here to grab me by the shoulders and shake them, shakeshakeshake them, till all doubts and uncertainties fall out of my head like hair on my small pinkish palm each morning, then look at me deep into in the eye and whisper, gently but firmly, cold-handed people are good because they have warm hearts.
I tried so much to hold back the sigh, which, you know, I always excel in.
The spring rain was dancing on the roof, singing:
“Pitter patter, pitter patter
Come away with me
And I’ll never stop