A Call From a Son
A Call From A Son
When you called today
I sensed in your voice “sweet smiles”.
I heard a slight hint of laughter
Sent out to me, all of those miles.
You were driving on your way home
After working so hard, a long day.
It was so very thoughtful
For you to remember me that way.
I hoped you drove with care
Not distracted by something I’d said
Distracted is worse than drunk driving
Or so in the paper I’d read.
I laughingly said: “Hang up when you must”
I’ll finish telling this story to myself
Then I closed up my trusted flip phone
Placed it gently on its charging shelf
You asked what I’d been doing
The choices you know are few
This time of day, we think about food
With home cooked meals of stew.
I think often of my old truck
I so often wonder where it’s been.
For the charges on my Visa
Show it has been “filled” again.
I look for it out in my stall
But it’s seldom there in its spot
I’ve thought of calling the cops
Reporting my vehicles “hot”.
The family seems to enjoy
Sharing my truck with a friend.
Their neighbors and co-workers
Are also a part of the blend.
It seems having a truck in standby
Is as handy as the local U-Haul
But mine doesn’t charge by the mile
Really there are no charges at all.
You asked if I’d seen any movies
They are listed each month in the news
The popcorn is good and the show is free.
But it’s no fun your “third” view.
I mentioned about exercising
They have all the latest in gear
But sometimes my heart gets to racing
Struggle back to my room with great fear.
Since my memory is shrinking
I can’t now leave the grounds
I try to go for short, lazy walks
Where canes and walkers abound
I’ve tried making friends over cookies
They serve them each day about two.
You remembered the nice coffee shop
They cleverly call it: “The Brew”.
But making friends here
Is like buying a fuzzy pet.
You may eventually outlast it
Then you’d stew and fret
For it’s a bit troubling
As you walk the long halls.
All the generous donors
Have pictures on the walls.
Each has lived there sometime
But no longer do they linger
For the dark cloud of death
Oft points its “ugly” finger.
But I linger ever longer
Still waiting by the phone
For that very next time
Driving on your way home
You may think of me again
Still sitting here alone
I hope you take a minute
To dial your dads old phone.
Written by oldbuck Feb 12, 2017 as he thought about all the wonderful folks he’s met at the Sr. Center, while visiting friends and the “extra” time so many spend alone.
Copyright © Old Buck | Year Posted 2017
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