How they ever flood my soul.
In the stillness of the midnight,
precious sacred scenes unfold.”
When a son helps his father to walk,
it flows by and doesn't return.
I'm getting more forgetful
as the days go swiftly by.
Remembering the things I have to do
or have I done them and why?
I stand with mind of great concern
at the bottom of the stair.
Must I go for something or have I
just come down from there?
I stand before the refrigerator
my poor mind filled with doubt.
Have I just put the food away,
or have I come to take it out?
And then there are times when it's dark out
with my night cap on my head.
I don't know if I'm retiring
or just getting out of bed.
So if it's my turn to write you,
there's no need in getting sore.
I may think that I have written
and don't want to be a bore.
I stand beside the mailbox,
with a face so very red.
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I opened it instead.
Just remember that I care for you
and wish that you were here.
To share the many memories
that we still hold so dear.
~ Author Unknown ~
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the little old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded. "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy,
"it seems Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
By Shel Silverstein