Ode to the old

I walk with you arm-in-arm

like I used to

when I was young. 

I walk with you arm-in-arm 

as we go towards

the narrow white corridors, 

with marble-tiled floors, 

and "the doctor is in" doors. 

 

I walked with you arm-in-arm 

and back then I felt

your skin tight, yet lined

with the labors you had had;

your arms strong and stable

as you carried me over the flood

so my black leather shoes won't sop. 

 

I walk with you arm-in-arm 

and now I feel

as if your very skin

is gradually melting,

gradually softening

gradually sliding off your bones;

as if the lines that were

your battle scars

are fading like spider webs

pulled away too far;

as if the flood

anytime now could

wash you away from me, 

from everyone you love, 

from the world. 

 

I am not ready for that. 

 

I am not ready

because in my mind

yours are still the arms

that carried me over the flood

so my black leather shoes won’t sop;

yours are still the arms

that hauled my heavy bags

when they were too hefty to lug;

yours are still the arms

that I clung to the first second

I tried to swim, tried to stay afloat;

yours are still the arms

that carried me gently to bed

after I fell asleep learning my numbers;

yours are still the arms

that I hugged for the afternoon naps

and golden evening slumbers;

and

yours are still the arms

that I dearly treasure

even if I rarely

get to hold to them anymore.

 

Now

I walk with you arm-in-arm

in silence

and in dubious nonchalance

that all still could be well

even as for your fading health

I guess, now, only time can tell.

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