I fear my aged companion, Crisp, is losing her mind. Either that or I have been reading far too much of late about dementia.
We were out walking along the lake, and she stopped and began singing:
“The water is wide, I cannot get o’er
Neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall cross my true love and I.”
Crisp is not known for her singing ability, she struggles to recognise a note let alone hold one, so it came as a surprise to hear her singing. Looking across I spied the windmill in the distance and remembered a story she told me of her youth when she met a young Dutch boy who won her heart before disappearing down a sinkhole.
She was quiet for a while, unusual in itself, before taking my hand and walking on.