My Usual Sunday

My father had a fall.

I didn’t realize how bad it was until I saw him over lunch.

Half is face is black and blue.

He says it looked worse when it just happened.

I tried to not look shocked but I was.

His caregiver has been replaced.

 

Dad likes to walk to the kitchen at wee hours for a snack.

I suggested that he keep a bell by his side and ring it before he stands.

I’m sure he was frightened by his fall, although downplays it.

I feel helpless thinking about his situation.

It’s no different from other aging individuals.

I just wish he wasn’t so vulnerable and lonely.

 

Without thinking, he always shrugs off how the food isn’t anything great.

But in reality, it’s delicious!  He eats everything on his plate.

It’s a lot of food and I cannot imagine him wiping out his plate if it isn’t good.

He’s always been the kind of man that complains more than praises.

Maybe it’s a result of his loneliness.

We strolled around the mall after his meal.

 

I wish I wasn’t such a restless person.  

Maybe I’d be able to sit it out a little longer with him.

I had a list of errands to accomplish. 

I’m that kind of person that must tick off my “to do” list for the day.

Otherwise, why carry a list with me.

 

My Sunday ended with thoughts about my father.

Dad is surrounded by caring people who constantly look after him.

But it’s not enough.  He continues to long and look for what’s not possible.

I know that he craves for a life outside family and routine.

Unfortunately, it’s not something that comes easy at his late age.

 

He chooses to remain guarded, searching and hoping for spring to come.

I know he is grateful and appreciative when it comes to family support.

But the sadness remains masked underneath his boredom.

So much I have learned from merely observing him.

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Monika Schott PhD To be the poet, and the poem
12 February 2021
I agree, Stephen. It's the simple things.
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Very interesting. I don't know this author.
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So apt, Ken!