You find your self complaining that your back
-bent by nothing but the dead weight of your head-
is too old and sore to bend when she lifts her
tiny hands to you and asks you to lift her high.
And there you are- struck dumb and wondering
if your father remembers the last time he
lifted you, whether he knew that this time
(this begged for one more time) would be the last.
And you think of how one day when he is old
and frail and thin with ghosts, you might yet
bend to carry him, from a hospital bed perhaps,
into the fading light, or down into the earth.
And you think of all the lasts that
punctuate this thing that is your life
as she lifts her hands again and your aching
back bends and you raise her to the light.