I sit quietly in a corner watching his chest rise and fall
A steady rhythm of exhales with periodic moans
Each pause between breaths I wonder if its his last
Who is this old man with white hair and weak hands
I still see a tall, dark and strong father that stood at a helm
Traveled the seas and pushed us on a swing into the trees
Struck fear in us when angered and respect as he taught us
Who is this old man with white hair and weak hands
He loves his mother and brother and hopes to see them again
Scared and unsure is a look I’ve never seen on him before
Once always clutching a beer now grips the Bible with fear
Who is this old man with white hair and weak hands
Noellie's Place 
A moving piece, Noellie. I volunteered in long term care and hospitals for many years, and often wondered about the patients’ lives.
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💕 thank you
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Welcome!
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A very touching and poignant poem. Thank you!
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🙂thank you I appreciate that kind feed back
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Your poem is so touching for your memories of a strong father now weakened by age. I understand.
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Thank you for being so kind and and understanding my heart. It’s tough to watch
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Very sweet. I see both of my parents age and it is hard. I’ve lost several uncles and I know someday it will be my father. I will value the time we have left to share. ❤
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Watching this part of life is very cruel but I understand it and try to make the best of everything ❤️ I wish you the best with your parents
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