It's raining. I'm on the edge of the kitchen window. You can't know how I feel cold. My violets do not bloom anymore, mom. As you said, I watered them from the bottom but...

If I'd make a call to you, it was not enough to hear your voice. It's always same sentences... "How's my dad? You got your medicine?" I don't know why but there is a cry inside me. I can't fit my heart into anywhere. You once used to get lost in thoughts while cooking. What had you held in your mind when you were standing upon the saucepan and holding wooden spoon? It is so bad to miss [someone], mom. To understand you is worse...

I'm waking up by feeling aches in my shoulders in mornings.

Much more time needed for my daughter to massage my shoulders.

Do I look like you, or is it true that "Mother's fate passes to her daughter"?

Your once told me that "Your father makes everything [everyone] old, my daughter". Yet, I did not get it at that time, but I do now, he does so, mommy.

[I understand now] No one, who massages your shoulders, left in the same house...

If you hear these now, you'd become sad in a sort of sound "Is my daughter unhappy?" as if you are given up yourself. I am not happy,mom, but I can't make a solution to the rain and sadness in my kitchen.

I'm tidying the house, removing dusts, friying eggplant, watcing TV, opening the door on evenings, no one sees that I've opened it. What I cooked is eaten but nobody tells it tastes good. Tea is steeping, steeping, steeping...

My sadness settles all around my kitchen. Oh, how is everything get old, mom, how? I can't spare to put my old things away. I miss you so much. Were those gardens which you forbade them to me also far away from you? Did you cry bacuse you can't go, neither? When are the loves become old? Is it when the hurt of sacrifices pass by? Eh, it's just like that, a pain in my heart. Songs sing you...