Aging Grace
As we grow older, our parents arrive first.
We pray for the best and plan for the worst.
Old photos, young faces we barely recognize,
save something familiar in their smiles and their eyes.
The pillars of strength we worshiped when small,
grow fragile and forgetful under sweaters and shawls.
We cling to their dignity more than they do themselves,
as their passage to heaven brushes too close to hell.
We’d gladly carry that burden, if only we could.
They say only “I love you, my life has been good.”
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