Livingston Rossmoor

I Still Remember the Walk​

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Fifteen and a half years ago,

right after I flew back

from visiting my ninety-year-old father,

my granddaughter had her first birthday party.

She was wobbling step by step,

learning how to make the next step;

It reminded me

I just came back from holding my dad’s arm, helping him remember how to walk again.

They both were trying with enthusiasm,

eager to reach the other pair of hands

waiting to hold them.

I do not recall what they said

or what sounds they made at the time.

But now,

she can talk, she can sing, she can walk and run, and she drove me to the airport last month when I went back to visit my dad’s tomb;

I walked a long way into the mountains,

as though he were walking beside me.