Thurman P. Woodfork

TIME’S TOUCH

It’s painful to watch the gradual deterioration of someone who was once vigorous and strong. To see slow tears welling in eyes that once scorned weakness – eyes that previously flashed pride and resolution – evokes a profound sadness.

The hands tremble and that powerful voice has lightened to a less imperious tone. The shoulders that so many leaned on have become stooped and weary. Age, it would seem, treats some of us less kindly than it does others.

Now, he plods where he once danced along on an athletes’ agile feet, descending stairs one step at a time instead of in a light-footed rush. Knees ache, eyes dim, the quarterback can no longer loft his tightly spiraled darts. He can’t find his cane or his favorite baseball cap. The child has become the parent.

The one thing left is self-esteem, and one must be careful to offer sympathy without pity; for not even dispassionate, irresistible Time should have the power to rob one of that final personal dignity.

Ocean Mist, Palos Verdes Peninsula, California