This past week, we commemorated National Parents’ Day on July 27, and Respect for Parents Day on August 1. Both days recognize the critical role that parents play in a child’s life. This also extends to Grandparents, who most definitely deserve respect after everything they have lived through, and also for the support they provide to not only their children, but also their children’s children.
This next idea first came to me a few years ago when I saw a meme representing the circle of life. The photo showed two pictures side by side. The first picture was of a little boy walking between his mother and father, holding onto both of their hands. The second picture took place about sixty years later, and showed the parent holding on tight to the now grown-up child’s hand as the child helped the parent along, and the meme mentioned the irony surrounding the circle of life. I started thinking about how life starts and ends in a similar manner. We start out toothless and helpless, needing care and assistance to do basic functions, and as we get up in later years, most of us will need some type of care and assistance then too. I began thinking of a little boy holding tight to his walker, and an old man holding on to his walker, and this poem was born. This little boy and old man are like bookends on either side of our lifespans; so similar and yet so very different.
But even more than that, I wanted to explore what happens to the elderly in our society. I feel like the elderly, for the most part, are sometimes disregarded or “put out to pasture.” Not everywhere; for in Japan the elderly are held in very high regard, and oftentimes several generations live under one roof. I recall when my grandpa would tell a story, I would zone out or be distracted with a toy. Nowadays it’s a phone or video game that pulls the attention away from an older person. In my defense, I was a small child and really didn’t understand much of what was being discussed. Even in high school when we studied the Holocaust, I remember watching the filmstrips of the emaciated victims, and seeing the bodies stacked on top of each other. I realized how horrific it was, but I really didn’t grasp the enormity of it or how it all came to be. Now that I’ve read several books on that era, and even visited a concentration camp in Munich, Germany, I have a better understanding (not that any of it can really be understood). I would love to have a conversation with my grandfather and dad or uncles and hear their memories of that time, or any time in our history, or hear one of my dad’s army stories. Think about what they have lived through: the Depression, World Wars I and II, the Ho1ocaust, Pearl Harbor, and so on. The stories they have to tell are incredible, yet we don’t often take the time to listen. I wonder if someday a younger person will be giving us a glassy stare when we tell the tales of September 11, 2001, or any other events we’ve experienced or are yet to experience in our lifetimes, and I wonder what gadget or device will take their attention away and make us feel as if our words don’t matter.
By the way, this is the first time I’ve ever written an epilogue for a poem. I just felt like this story needed an ending. I hope you enjoy.
Bookends
I saw a little toddler
On my jog the other day.
He held tight to his walker
As it helped him find his way.
Each tiny footstep that he took
Filled him with delight.
The pride, as he looked up at Mama,
Was such a joyous sight.
Yesterday I saw an old man
As I took my evening run.
He held tight to his walker
As he faced the setting sun.
His expression, it was tentative;
His footsteps were unsure.
Every wince a telling sign
Of the pain he must endure.
Each step he took was cautious,
As if afraid he’d make a blunder.
For him this daily walk
Seemed to hold no childlike wonder.
Compare that to the little boy
And the pride each footstep brings.
His laughter is infectious;
His joy could give him wings.
I thought about the parallels,
Each walking with assistance;
The little one so determined,
And walking with persistence.
Whereas the old man seemed embarrassed
To need any help at all.
I was reminded of the saying,
“Pride comes before the fall.”
I thought about the contrasts,
How the old man seemed so jaded.
Compare that to the little boy
Whose spirit was elated.
The old man, wrought with memories
Of how he used to be;
The little boy, alive with hope,
Just wanting to be free.
I felt sadness for the old man
And for a moment my heart broke.
His shoulders slouching over,
He wore his burdens like a cloak.
I thought about my own self
And the assumptions I was making
About the old man and his life,
With each footstep he was taking.
I thought about society
And how we treat the old.
We should protect their stories;
Their memories are like gold.
The life they’ve lived, the things they’ve seen
Are like a buried treasure.
Often, when they bring up the past,
Their face lights up with pleasure.
But too often in society
We cast the old aside.
We roll our eyes, our patience wanes,
We quietly steal their pride.
It’s quite opposite with children
As we celebrate each win.
We encourage them, we dote on them,
Then celebrate them again.
My mind returns to these two souls,
Each as different as can be.
What has the old man been in life?
What is the boy to be?
These two, they are like bookends
Positioned in different spaces;
Even though they are worlds apart
And their lives in different places.
One with life behind him,
The other yet to live;
But each holds so much value,
And both have so much to give.
They symbolize the circle of life;
A ring that has no end.
You are born, you grow, you die,
All while new life begins again.
Today I was given such a gift
As I stopped to tie my shoe.
I heard a child shriek with joy,
As children often do.
I turned to see from where it came,
This joyful, buoyant laugh . . .
The little boy and the old man
Were in each other’s path!
As they passed, each with their walkers,
The boy looked up at his mother,
Then up into the old man’s eyes . . .
Their toothless grins shined at each other.
Epilogue
I still see the little boy
As I take my walk each day.
He no longer needs his walker
As he skips along his way.
I keep looking for the old man
As I take my evening run.
No longer do I see him,
As I watch the setting sun.
-K.A. Bloch-
