I watch as he walks slowly to the car.
Back crooked and one leg much shorter.
The years have not been kind to him.
Everything takes such effort
that going out is hard.
But he keeps moving
smiling mostly.
It is hard
being
old.

I was the child but am more the parent.
Weighing all the options and choices.
Walking the fine line of being
helpful, not overbearing,
respecting his wisdom.
There are now mornings
I move slowly.
It is hard
growing
old.