Annals

It is hard to accept that my parents are aging.  When we’ve gone without seeing one another for a sufficient period of time, there have always been little changes, nothing alarming.  Lately, I am starting to really see the signals of time: on their hands and their faces, by the expressions they wear, by the light in their eyes and their muted gestures;  I can’t discern whether it is due to contentment or surrender.  Perhaps it is both.

The fact of death is something we carry with us, yet we never seem to think it will happen to us or our loved ones; my father is invincible, and so is my mother.  Despite our highs and our lows, they will always be there for me, a mere phone call away at most.  On the worst of days, my dad will always be there to offer his generous hug.

I am starting to wish that I’d spent more time playing tennis with my dad back when he asked me to, rather than blow him off for random acts of teenage angst.  It is a chapter of his narrative that I missed as it unravelled, and he of mine.  Tennis is no longer an option.