Days Like These
Tue, 12 Jan 2016
Peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink I watch him walk back
down the path – no longer with the swinging, rolling gait
I could have recognised from a mile away; he’d been feeding
the birds...and it takes him a while...this man whose motto –
some fifteen years since became, ‘Sorry; I don’t do quick!’
lived life, literally, in the fast lane,
for whom time took on a whole new meaning;
diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease
in the prime of his life
forced onto the hard shoulder
through no fault of his own.
I’d helped dress this morning;
fastened his belt, buttoned up his shirt
and tied his tie.
So I hear him come in...finally, after fumbling for his keys
he swears blind have deliberately gone missing,
just to spite him
except, he finds them in the end, with a little help from me.
His hands, now with their customary tremor, dig
deep into his pocket; on this occasion, for a little
silver box of pills – twenty at least, pink, white,
blue and yellow.
Fetch a drink, as, proudly placed, on the table
a trug – full of early Maris Piper...and a cucumber,
lovingly reared in the greenhouse from seed,
in the shape of a question mark.
But we’ve both, long-since stopped asking ‘why?’
Learned to accept what life has deigned to dish out to us
for whatever reasons it may have had, and be grateful
of our late daughter’s legacy...if she could carry on
from day to day, always a smile on her lips, then
the hell can we!
Each year, though, I can’t help but dread winter the more,
but when the freeze finally sets in, it’s recalling
days like these, in all their multi-coloured madness
will keep me sane
and if there is one thing I have learned from this crazy
little thing they call life is that, most certainly,
there are days, and then, there are days.