Old Age

My father gets up at 5 almost every morning and my mother gets up with him to make certain he has the St. Joseph News-Press, a cup of tea or coffee and a couple of cinnamon graham crackers to start the day.

They both sit companionably at the small breakfast table in the kitchen for a couple of hours, read the paper completely through - funny pages, obituaries and ads - while commenting periodically, on something they see and their thoughts about it.

Mother finishes reading long before Dad and devotes herself to completing crossword puzzles and adding to her shopping list any "specials" she finds.  The conversation is limited and sporadic.  I suppose that after 65 years, you can kind of surmise what the person sitting across the table from you will say.

One particular morning around 7:30, I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down hoping the caffeine would help me feel less drowsy.

Dad looked at me, his finger marking where he had left off in his paper, while my Mother solved her crossword puzzle, and said, "So did I tell you my definition of old age?"

I looked at Mother who gave me the briefest of glances with just a trace of a smile before returning to her crossword puzzle.

"No, Dad, you didn't."

"Ills, pills, bills and wills," he says with a smile.