I remember when my mother used to take my to the fields,
Where the flowers would sit,
swaying in the wind,
showing off their beauty.
Where the sun would awaken,
Rising from its slumber,
and lighting up the world in a warm embrace.
Where the birds would sing,
Marking the beginning of another day,
and fly ever so freely.
I remember when my mother would set our picnic blanket down,
Torn and shriveled,
but comfortable and sign of use.
She would tell me stories of monsters,
of the beasts beyond our world,
and of the witches who could cast spells.
We had went to that field everyday.
Whether it was to hide from my father,
to getaway from the world,
to enjoy the nature,
or to be ourselves.
Everytime my mother would tell me,
"If the time comes, and you must run, come to this field, and stay until the world is ready for you again."
She taught me all about the birds,
the plants,
the places around,
and more then my small brain could remember.
If I had remembered,
would she have been proud?
I sit here now,
Admiring the night sky,
listening to the songs the nature sings,
and praying for her to return.
I'm sorry,
mother.
I'm tired of awaiting your arrival.
There's nothing I can do.
I hope you enjoy the daises when you arrive.
If you do,
that is.
You taught me a lot.
Now let me use it now,
and escape the world like you taught me.
I love you,
Mother.
