his recliner seems to have grown
my friend sits
covered with blankets
a small shape a fastness of faux leather
his thin hair is tasseled
and his eyes, once bright with hidden mirth
seem lifeless
he manages a small
toothless grin
we talk of inconsequential things
of books
and weather
and then slowly we slip into
steeper, deeper terrain
health and family
and yes life itself
to him his life is as frail and small
as his frame within that chair
and this once robust man sees only what he cannot
do
and what he has lost
and I have little to offer
except a simple litany that came to me long ago
in a moment of despair
“there are gifts to be given
and gifts to be received”
and I tell him, “you are a gift”
and he smiles
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