Posted on March 16, 2012 by Christine Crosby in aging, GRAND Magazine, grandchildren, poetry

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There’s little left that I can do.  My bones are weak,  my strength is gone;

my days of lifting children high,  of sending kites  up to the sky,  of playing softball on the lawn,  of climbing sand dunes  by the lake,  of nailing shingles on a roof,  of painting a gable,  of planting a shrub,  of trimming a tree,  of being half the man I used to be.


I’ve thought about it a lot;  questioning  why I’m still around.  I always felt,  contemptuously,  that if one takes up space  without producing  for the common good;  without earning a place  in the scheme of things,  it’s time to go.  And then a grandchild smiled and said,  “Grandpa,  can you help me with this?”

A neighbor  needed me to  fix a faucet.   A stranger  asked me to show him  the way.  I held the door  for one older  and more crippled than I.

I prayed with a bereaved  friend who sought comfort.  The more I helped others,  the more I found  I had much to offer.  I felt guilty  knowing my own depression was depressing others;  especially those I love most.  And at last I realized that I still have much to do  that does not require  physical strength;  and all at once,  my fears,  my doubts,  my depression;



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