TOUCH
ME
I
am old. The relentless waves of Time have bruised my body; eroded my bones.
Skin that was once firm and elastic has shriveled beneath many summers
of flaming suns; has become withered from the caress of icy winds of many
winters. My steps are now measured and faltering--from my bed to the wheelchair
are agonizing miles. I grope blindly for the glass there on the table beside
my bed. My hand touches the plastic bowl of plastic flowers and bitterness
rises in my heart. Two years ago this past Mother's Day, they sent them.
TWO YEARS AGO!
Poker-faced,
stern, these strangers who minister to my needs. Impersonally, they perform
those acts necessary for my survival. To them, I am not a person. Only
a number! Number 54 is tendered medication. Number 54 is bathed, dressed,
and assisted to her wheelchair. Number 54 is brought her tray....and forgotten!
Touch
me, so I will know I am still a segment of this vitally alive, pulsating
world of human beings and not an inanimate number lying there staring daily
at a bowl of plastic flowers. As you give me medication, allow your sturdy
fingers to press my trembling ones in reassurance. Such an act will bring
back sweet memories of other days; of other hands, clinging, clasping baby
hands; hands raised in supplication; hands pleading for love. Your act
will unroll the scroll of Time, and once again I will feel tiny arms about
my neck, squeezing, clinging. Touch me!
The
endless monologues you hear are not senseless ramblings of disoriented
minds. They are the heartcries of forsaken souls begging for remembrance.
Only the flicker of an eyelash; the remotest trace of a smile! They are
wails of love-starved beings, pleading for a crumb of affection. Look at
me!
Touch
me! The miracle of physical contact will remove the thick crust of disappointment
and disillusionment from a heart battered by unkind years. Number 54 will
become a person again....a grateful old woman, alive--and thankful! She
will soar beyond her aches and pains, she will forget plastic flowers in
a plastic bowl, and face her day in peace. Trembling hands will grasp each
such moment greedily...never letting go. This old, pain-torn body will
be revitalized with hope and purpose for when the heart is happy, the soul
sings. You'll see! Just touch me!
IF
I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER
I'd
dare to make more mistakes next time. I'd relax. I would limber up. I would
be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously.
I would take more chances. I would take more trips. I would climb more
mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I'd have fewer imaginary
ones.
You
see, I'm one of those people who live sensibly and sanely, hour after hour,
day after day. Oh, I've had my moments, and if I had it to do over again,
I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to have nothing else. Just moments,
one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I've
been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer,
a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do it again,
I would travel lighter than I ever have.
If
I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring
and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances and I would
ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.
(written
by an 85 year old)
A
FRIVOLOUS OLD GAL
I
have become quite a frivolous old gal.
I
am seeing five gentlemen everyday!
As
soon as I wake, WILL POWER helps me out of bed.
When
he leaves, I go to see JOHN.
Then
CHARLEY HORSE comes along and when he is there, he takes a lot of my attention.
When
he leaves, ARTHUR RITIS shows up and stays the rest of the day.
He
doesn't like for me to stay in one place very long, so he takes me from
joint to joint.
After
such a busy day, I am really tired and ready to go to bed with BEN GAY!
What a life!
Oh,
yes, the preacher came to call the other day. He said at my age I should
be thinking about the hereafter. I told him, "Oh, I do, all the time. No
matter where I am, in the parlor, upstairs, in the kitchen, or down the
basement....I ask myself ...."NOW, WHAT AM I HERE AFTER????"
THE
LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN
Said
the little boy, "Sometime I drop my spoon."
Said
the little old man, "I do that, too."
The
little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I
do that, too", laughed the little old man.
Said
the little boy, "I often cry."
The
old man nodded, "So do I."
"But
worst of all," said the boy, "it seems grown-ups don't pay attention to
me."
And
the little boy felt the warth of a wrinkled old hand. "I know what you
mean," said the little old man.
(
A Light in the Attic )
Another
Poem