On aging

I remember walking with you, my arm stretched above my head, trying to keep up. You kept watch over me when we were in a strange place, so that I wouldn’t wander away and get lost. You read the menu for me at the restaurant, and cut up my steak. You bent over my hand with a needle to pick out a splinter. You built the new room, and I helped; I drove a nail in, crookedly.
Now I walk ahead of you, turning around, waiting for you to catch up. In a new place, I ask “Where’s dad”: you may wander away and get lost. Your eyes can’t see the menu in the dim light, so I read it for you, and cut your steak when it comes. I pick the splinter from your hand with fingers that do not shake as yours do now. The new room I am building, you are helping with; you hold boards and carry things.
Slow down, you walk too fast.