I was a child once. It seemed my parents would live forever and I’d always have someone to go to when I needed a bandage to cover a boo-boo or a treat to stifle an adolescent sorrow.
As all parents eventually do, my father died one beautiful fall day. Died the place he loved best: the garden.
My mother moved in and somewhere along the way, she became the child and I became the parent. Now I’m the one who buys the treats, the one who does the cooking and cleaning, and “watching over”. I’m the one who takes her to the hospital or doctor when she’s feeling poorly or having a medical issue.
It’s a strange scenario, this transformation of familial hierarchy. You do what you have to (and want to)—it’s part of the cycle of life. You’re always learning, always adapting.
The years start to flow like a raging gorge . . . quickly and determinedly. And they continue to pass . . . until one day they are stilled by the angels of time.