No One Told Me It’s Hurt to See My Parent’s Age

“Some days are boring, but I’m ok,”

My mom says with some semblance of cheer.

We say goodbye and I end the call.

She’s unemployed, home alone.

She tends to her garden and dresses the laundry line.

But most of the time, she’s there bound by her fragile, aging body.

Her symptoms of decay:

Crippling arthritis, a dysfunctional bowel, and a deficitof insulin.

But she’s not alone. She has my dad off shift and her dog.

She said she was ok, so why am I hurting?

I’m grown up now and I live two states away.

The last time I visited,

Her hair looked extra gray, and her face welcomed a few new wrinkles.

My dad’s varicose veins appeared like cords on his legs—

Dark blue, twisted, and bulging.

Cupboards were full of supplements and pain relievers.

Fatigue followed the air they breathed.

After I end the call, a rush of memories fills my mind.

I remember the photo albums and family videos.

Freshly parents, their eyes glistened with the light of life.

A hum on their lips and a zing to their steps.

Even their love, oh their love...

It was a passion that was palpable, young, and wild like freedom.

I remember the innocence of our affection too.

When I was a child, they used to kiss my cheek and dangle me in their arms.

But now that’s all a memory, displaced with decline and deterioration.

Talk of a will, a bequeathment.

But I’m just getting started.

Unmarried, childless, and still in college.

I know I act strong and self-sufficient,

But I’m really just the same pigtailed girl in those photos.

The same girl in those photos with a missing tooth in a big cheesy smile.

She longs for her parent’s embrace,

The comfort of their touch,

And the reassurance of their words.

Yet, a small voice speaks and reminds me of my adoption,

To whom and by whom, I cry out, “Abba! Father!