A Meditation on Aging Parents

by Kathy Pon

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

With my arm beneath

hers, I support Mom’s left side, her right

hand leans on a cane as she shuffles

into the kitchen, pushing her cane

against the counter. Neuropathy’s buzzsaw

has severed feeling from her hands and feet.

Her house steams with stagnant

air that soothes thermostats of old bodies.

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

She insists on making a little potato salad,

stooping to get vinegar from a lower cabinet.

Her body folds in slow motion,

mother ostrich bending earthward to dig.

I catch my breath, fearing

her fall. But she doesn’t.

Holy Mary, Mother of God

I assist Mom to her recliner. She sinks

back into cushions where she will

savor memories of her culinary days

mass-producing meals, quantity, not quality.

Her recollections, flavored with

a pinch of usefulness. 

pray for us sinners

Dad’s body, dilapidated

like this dairy barn. Carved

by nine decades, prime years

hewn, stooped but still trying to stand.

Stressed bones, a splintered finale,

nature has sliced him with its angry

knives. Aging, his claim for coming

undone.

now, and at the hour of our death.

A lifetime of holding up so much,

Dad’s arms hang, weak and fatigued,

exhausted as the beams of a worn

dairy barn. Intent still lodges in the rafters

among night creatures roosting within.

Broken down barn, broken down man.

It hurts to watch him crumble.

How usefulness dissipates

like Tule fog, bodies left teetering.   

There is no dignity in collapse.

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Kathy Pon lives with her husband, a third-generation farmer, and two dogs. They live on an almond orchard in rural California. Her work has been featured in Wild Roof Journal, Passengers Journal, Canary, RockPaperPoem, The Closed Eye Open and other places. Her chapbook, Orchard Language (Finishing Line Press) will be published in September, 2025.