The Walking Stick

 

It happened one night - while I was sleeping quite soundly,

Age somehow found me - my eyebrows are white.

I should have known it came creeping,

While I was off sleeping - my joints are now achy and tight.

Such a scoundrel this age is, as life turns its pages,

Tis a shame that large print seems so right.

                     * * * * * * * * * *

 

So I visit the old man and no sooner do I walk in, he starts complaining about his new walking stick.

 

What’s the matter with it? I ask.

 

It doesn’t work.  It doesn’t do anything.  Do you know what I had to pay for that thing?

 

Dad, it is just called a walking stick.  It’s not supposed to do anything.  You hold it when you are walking, and it helps to stabilize you if you feel wobbly.

 

Wobbly?  What kind of word is that?  I never taught you that.

 

It’s just a word Dad.

 

So can you fix this thing?  (he says as he holds up his new walking stick)

 

“It is a piece of wood.  There is nothing to fix.  It has no moving parts.”

 

Yes!  That’s the problem.  Now you’re getting it.  It should move.

 

That is when I found myself again looking over at my old friend - the visiting hours sign.