We Get Old

She mentions that her hands don’t even work anymore
Like her fingers are made of hard plastic
Like it’s not such a big deal
Just the almost last item on a long list
Of things that have slowly stopped working
“Don’t make me cry.” she says
As I hold her trembling hands coated in dry skin
That used to take me from my mother’s arms
And brush the hair out of my eyes
Or hand me back my lost teddy bear
Or make me a glass of orange soda
And I can’t talk, I can only look back at her
Noticing there are some things that won’t make that list
Her tears, for one, still seem to be working just fine

May 2010 Derek Wilson

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~ by delboywilson on May 31, 2010.

2 Responses to “We Get Old”

  1. Lovely bro. Strong and simple. x

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