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.