She did not mean to trouble him, but she could barley speak
For age and sickness and weakened her voice
Her body; now frail and weak
In need of a helping hand if he hand one to lend
Hard to make it up the stairs, hard to make a friend
He placed his arm through hers, slowly helping her along the way
Once they reached the top of the stairs, there was something she wanted to say
Though she did not say a word, "Your Welcome" was his reply
Words that were never spoken, the thanks was in her eyes
With trembling hands and uneven lines, scribbles of the note,
A few days later he found it by his door, the words the woman had wrote:
"Thank you again, my son, for the help you gave to me. If only there were more like you, what a better world it could be. So often we are forgotten, with age, things go down hill. Maybe now you don't understand, but someday you will.
This world I live in gets lonely, many days I can barley walk,and when I do see someone, it's so hard for me to talk."-- Too old to drive anymore, though I have many places I need to go. People are always angry because I move so slow. I never hear a thank you from birthday cards I sent, or even a phone call to ask how my day has went, so when someone like you offers a minute of their time to lend...a minute of time is all it takes...to make yourself a friend".
8/04/95

© -§-
By Sheila May King (§weetcheeks §heila)
Copyright © 1995 Sheila King.
All rights reserved