Just picked up a walker for my father. It's one of those rocket-powered contraptions with a basket, brakes, and a seat. Plus it folds down to fit in a car.
Up until last year, I would have said that my father would never use a walker to get around. Now, he's quite unsteady. His days of snowblowing and lawn mowing are behind him, I think. He is going to be 90 years old this July. I suppose he's earned the right to slow down.
Of course, it's difficult for me to see him wobbling across a room. He's a small piece of flint, but he's always burned large in my life. Up until last year, he was the guy I called when I had plumbing problems in my house. He would come over with his toolbox, and pretty soon my bathroom faucet wouldn't be dripping or my bathtub drain wouldn't be clogged.
Now, Saint Marty has to face the fact that his father is mortal. That's a little tough.
Letter From a Father
by: Mona Van Duyn
The birds are eating and fighting, Ha! Ha! All shapes
and colors and sizes coming out of our woods
but we don’t know what they are. Your Mother hopes
you can send us a kind of book that tells about birds.
There is one the folks called snowbirds, they eat on the ground,
we had the girl sprinkle extra there, but say,
they eat something awful. I sent the girl to town
to buy some more feed, she had to go anyway.