I watched as he gently arranged the thick blanket around the old man's shoulders, tucked it in between his legs and the edges of the wheelchair until the old man was wrapped up like a cocoon. Only then did the young man turn and wheel him out the door. A twenty something and an old man bonded in their grief going out to have a smoke in a spring snowstorm. The young man was my son. The old man the father of someone my son had close ties to once upon a time.
This past week has been hard.
Really hard.
Two deaths in two days.
One funeral.
Tears streaming down the old man's face, his aged hand, shaken by a stroke, zig zagging its way to until the kleen*x finds his tears. A parent burying a child. Another parent burying a child. Both parents of the age where by all appearances, it very well could have been the other way around. I want to write that it should have been the other way around.
But it wasn't.
And nothing makes sense.
And nothing makes sense.
And it never will.
This past week has been hard.
Really hard.
Two deaths in two days.
One funeral.
Tears streaming down the old man's face, his aged hand, shaken by a stroke, zig zagging its way to until the kleen*x finds his tears. A parent burying a child. Another parent burying a child. Both parents of the age where by all appearances, it very well could have been the other way around. I want to write that it should have been the other way around.
But it wasn't.
And nothing makes sense.
And nothing makes sense.
And it never will.
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