A high, thin layer of cloud backlit by sun. Cherry, dogwood, magnolia blooming. Summer sneaking in behind a mild spring. Children playing after supper time, a sure sign of a new season. Summer.

 The old house is nearly ready for the move next Monday. Lyd is gone for hours at a time finishing the sorting and tossing out the things we no longer need. I sit in the apartment and read, or clean the kitchen a bit at a time, unable to help her. It is very difficult to not be an equal partner in this move, to watch her do work I should do. For over fifty years, we have solved problems together. Shared the physical burden. Not now.

 It was not part of my vision that, when we got older, I would be the one to be cared for, but that’s how it is. She has to bring in the groceries, I cannot carry them. It restricts my breathing.  I can put away groceries on the middle and lower shelves, but not on the top or bottom. I cannot reach high shelves or bottom shelves; it restricts my breathing. I cannot even put on my own socks. The bending restricts my breathing.

I am not complaining or whining. It is what it is, and we get through. We make adjustments, move supplies to reachable levels so I can continue to cook, make notes of bottom shelf supplies I will need help with retrieving, etc. The changes keep me relatively independent, and I am able to do a larger share of the household chores. We get by.

We have always shared an ‘us against the world’ comaraderie in our marriage, friends and partners making our way through often difficult times. Our shared experiences making our bond stronger. That was when we were generally equal. We each had our strengths and weaknesses, but together we were a strong partnership. Not so anymore. Not that we are not strong nor partners. We are. The fulcrum has shifted, the weight off center, the tasks and jobs redistributed. More falls on her side.

She doesn’t complain. It’s her gift and I try not to feel guilty when she hauls the cans to the curb or rakes the leaves. Loving action should not involve guilt and I remind myself of this. It is love in the most real way. Not guilty;  thankful.

Our perspective changes as we get older. The love remains.

The Road