I sat in the waiting area,
pretending not to see the residents
doing their physical therapy.

I watched—secretly—as one lady,
old and thin,
stood slowly and stiffly,
then shuffled her way through the cones,
pushing her walker in a slow-motion slalom,
weaving her way across the vinyl floor
while her therapist walked alongside,
one hand gripping the wide strap
wrapped around the waist
to keep what little weight
the woman still had
from tilting too far toward
her next calamity.

When she was through
and trundled slowly back down the hall
to her room,
I saw the next crew come in—
three women and two men—
all in wheelchairs,
rolling toward whatever was next in their lives.
Making what effort they could
to make that better than what was just past.

Whether prayer or prophecy
or just the logical extension of my own awareness,
I could see that what already sagged over their lives
could be drifting toward me.

But as a Carpenter less than half my age
once said—more or less—
no amount of dread can change the least bit of life
and why add to this day
the aggravation that may not come with the next one?

And so, I gave thanks
that I could rise from sitting to standing
without too much demand,
and walked down the hall to visit a neighbor
who may be even more hard of hearing than I am.

I’m sure they could hear us laughing
clear down to the other end of the hall.
In this world where the next morning’s light
might be more than we will ever see,
we did not pause to offer any apology.


H. Arnett
2/9/2026