they fear being taken out to pasture....

those who have seen more 'fit' days...
and they feel wholly undignified and ashamed....
of their chronological actuality....
so they hide....
behind their guarded wall of stoic foibles and old egg salad sandwiches......
'forget me nots' are picked by their heirs and handed,
in bunches,
to them......
so as to never cast aspersion on the their honourable intentions...
the gardens of their old age grow ever slowly in the
 dimming sunlight of their mind's eye....
one can still see a butterfly broach from a bi gone era......
attached to a blazer no longer worn.....
and yet....
we hope....
 on some deeply buried level.....
that they will somehow hang on to themselves....
not allowing the 'darkness' to overtake the twilight.....

with love, for MOM....
SHABBAT SHALOM