My Parents Are Getting Old

Last month I noticed something for the first time: my parents are getting old. My father, who could carry two sacks of rice, now asks me to carry one. My mother, who never forgets anything, forgot my birthday. She cried when she remembered. I said it didn't matter. It did, a little.

I don't know when it happened. They were the same for thirty years, and then one day they weren't. My father has grey hair I didn't see before. My mother walks more slowly up the stairs. They don't say anything about it. Maybe they don't see it either.

So I've started doing things differently. I visit every week, not every month. I fix the things around the house before they ask. I listen to the same stories with more patience. They looked after me for twenty-five years. Now it's slowly becoming my turn, and I want to do it well.