For Patsy

Old age
is a time-worn weathered book,
holding our most cherished memories,
family stories,
and accumulated wisdom.
A volume no one is eager to read
and yet,
one day will be on all our bookshelves,
and in which,
each of us will be the main character.
Its narrative traces the rise of independence,
that eventually yields to the helping hands of others,
the layering of modesty over generations,
which bares itself to those who give support,
and the fullness of energy and vitality,
that one day is overtaken by fatigue.
It celebrates opening arthritic fingers,
navigating with wobbly legs,
relying on wheezing lungs,
and trips to the bedside commode,
as triumphs of tenacity.
It is a book written in chronological order,
yet whose chapters, paragraphs, and even sentences,
are read and recalled
in topsy-turvy, humble-jumble, helter-skelter sequence.
It is one in which
sparkling eyes and bright smiles,
feisty spirits and kind words,
leap off the page
to pierce the fog of discomfort.
And if we are blessed,
it is held tenderly and securely
in the strong and loving hands of family,
and like a good friend,
is one which is difficult to part with
when the time comes.

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