“Grow old along with me!”
“The best is yet to be!”
We took that seriously.
We listened to Browning when you were strong
And I was thin
And the kids were little
And we loved our work.
We looked forward to “the last of life
For which the first was made,”
Without expecting arthritis, or heart disease,
Or the diabetes that keeps me from ice cream
And you from brown sugar oatmeal.
Maybe we think the best is what we see
Because we share dementia
And chances are we’ll grow dimmer
As the sun comes up each morning.
And so we nestle in the hand of God
Barely recalling our own names
But trusting Him, not knowing fear
And putting not our faith in poets.