Becoming Old

               

    Was I old before Susan died?
    I didn’t know.  She couldn’t
    Stand nor walk not talk to any
    Degree.  I’d take the stairs two
    At a time to get her lip gloss or
    Book or mint and find her below
    Smiling; so I entered that glow.

    I was there beside her
    Indeterminately aged and
    Demeanored, shielding her from
    Intransigent winds wrinkling her brow.
    She’d look at me and smile.
    I’d smile back holding her cup
    While she drank and all that while

    She seemed as though I was all that
    Was needed, strong, able to
    Lift her into her chair and wheel
    Her wherever she wished, but
    When her shield fell and mine
    I felt it.  Was it then I grew
    Old, and shall I take to hobbling,

    And go about now with a cane? 
    I haven’t given her wheel chair
    Away; perhaps I’ll carry it
    Up stairs and sit in a
    Deception.  How far shall I
    Venture?  I don’t presently
    See a path I recognize.