There's something special about being under the safety of your parents covering. You could almost forget you were actually an adult and revert back to seeking permission to open the refrigerator or to sleep in.
The years of battling illness has taken it's toll on my parents. Her nursing him through his illness and him resenting her for being well. Watching them grow old is hard. When I listen to their voices over the telephone time seems to stand still, but when I look at them, her sitting in her chair and him across the room in his--reality sets in.
Grow old or die. I don't think there's another option. I'm happy to still have them. The availability of their wisdom. To see the look of fulfillment whenever they see their grandchildren. To drive my daddy to the store or across town to pay his bills. Or to prepare a meal with my mother.
This place, this small Blytheville, where the crape myrtle is in full bloom, the small streets seem even smaller, is a part of who I am . The faces around town are not as familiar; but there is joy in still having a place to call home.
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