by Dean Blehert
"Don't get old like me." (Grimacing
to steady her shakey scrawl on
the check.) "Not much choice,"
I said. "Funny--I thought
I'd have a lot of choices,
but my mother and father are dead,
all my family, all my friends
are dead, and I'm..." (Hears
her own voice, looks up,
astonished, young) "...I'm still
here--I'm 89--that's OLD! Not
many people get to be 89.
Why me? I don't understand
why I'm still here! I keep thinking:
I won't be here for THIS,
I won't be here for THAT,
but look at me, I'm
still here! I don't understand
why I'm still here." Shrinking back
into herself, she says something
about leaving it up to God, but
that wasn't what she had to say.
poem a day
This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert
Dean Blehert
1 comment:
This poem caught my attention because of my work with elders. Your poetry is very reflective and enjoyable to read.
I'm curious. Why no more posts?
Kareen King
www.thegoldenexperience.com
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