Some days the ground must feel like sand or mud or sludge to you. Your feet shuffle and stumble and stub up against things.
Some days you ask me if you need permission to go outside, or if there’s a sign-out list, or who it is you need to pay for breakfast.
I know you rarely remember, but you used to take me to the roller rink at the old San Francisco boardwalk and whisk me around and never let me fall. You rode bicycles mile after endless mile with me. You walked me down the aisle to my husband.
But some days now, you’re afraid to put your feet on the floor.
You’re afraid you will fall.
Dementia did this. It took you away though your body is here.
I see you every day and fix your meals and wasn’t aware how fast your were leaving.
I didn’t say a proper good-bye.
You can hardly wait to go out in the sun.
Today you found the door. And even opened it by yourself.
Today the deck is solid beneath your feet. You lift each shoe completely up. You set each shoe firmly down.
And I see the walker left behind.
Good for you, Dad. Good for you.
WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge – Beneath Your Feet