His goal was just a simple walk,
the mailbox out in front.
I couldn’t help but wonder how
he’d ever do that stunt.
Unsteady steps and faulty gait
had come to be his style;
but, quietly, he bravely faced
this malady so vile.
Though but a child, I, nonetheless,
could see the bitter truth
that one can’t keep forever safe
the vestiges of youth.
His gnarly fingers bent around
the envelope he held.
Yes, Grandpa had the system down,
grip tighter than a weld.
His mental state was more acute
than many younger men,
but getting through the day became
a painful regimen.
Since Parkinson’s had robbed him of
his former steady hand,
dear Grandpa tried to comprehend
what none could understand.
As years slip by and mem’ries fade,
I still can hear his voice
and wonder if I’m strong enough
to make as good a choice.