“Most people don’t grow up. Most people age. They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children, and call that maturity. What that is, is aging.”
― Maya Angelou
Haibun for a father
One quick kiss for your daughter and you and your new red walker head for the dining room where Sunday’s fried chicken and sweet potatoes wait. No cauliflower. You will watch to see how many residents leave their boiled vegetables on their plates, gifts for the garbage, your hatred for vegetables universalized. “No room at the table to chat,” you tell your daughter and son-in-law. “It’s okay to leave now.”
She wonders what thoughts you drag with each slow step. Your doctor doesn’t take long-term nursing home patients; his associate does, and he is on staff. Your daughter told you this less than an hour ago. You want to think of home as the place where you raised your kids, where you did your woodworking, and where you loved your wife.
But you knew, you’ve always known it is different now. You said you could sleep for 24 hours and never get enough rest.
Your daughter replays your words as if she could change them. She enters the key code to exit and pretends they are only lights and buttons.
One leaf falls on water
It will float across or break
into new parts like seeds.
terrypetersen 